The Hand You're Dealt
by Moonstarer
Summary: When Fate handed Grissom terrible cards he continued to play with what he had, but now Sara's back in town, will he go all in or fold? Sequel to Cottonwood House and Lost for Words. AU, GSR, hurt!Grissom, DARK. Warning: disability references.
1. Lindsey

**Cottonwood House III**

**The Hand You're Dealt**

Disclaimer: No, CSI: still isn't mine. *sigh*

**A/N**: This is the third and (probably) final part of the series that began with _Cottonwood House_ and continued in _Lost for Words_. It isn't written as a standalone piece, it might work out that way, but you should probably go away and read at least one of the other pieces first to be sure you know what the situation is. Because of that I won't repeat what I said in the Author's Notes for those stories, instead I'll just quickly mention some differences. Firstly, unlike the other two, I won't be writing this from a single character's point of view. However, in the hope of reducing confusion, individual chapters _will_ be a single POV, and the name of the chapter will tell you whose. The second difference is that this will be published as a work in progress. The negative part of that is that I can't guarantee posting dates, or tell you how long it will be (my WIPs so far have all ended up being approximately a third longer than I expected), but I am aiming for somewhere between five and ten chapters. The positive side of the decision is that it gives me the opportunity to integrate any questions, comments etc. that people include in their reviews. I know it's a cliché, but reviews do increase update rates because they inspire me to write, so keep 'em coming and I'll try not to resort to shameless begging in any future A/Ns.

Finally, thanks to everyone who's been patient and stayed in touch with me during my writing hiatus, and especially to SylvieT who once again helped by telling me some of the things she'd like to see in this story; my apologies to her for starting to post it just when she might not be able to log on and read so easily for a while.

**Chapter 1**

**Lindsey**

I think I hear Mom's voice calling as the doors to the service elevator slide open in front of me. It's a good job I remembered to get the override key from Hal in security, because the tone of Mom's voice proves that it hasn't occurred to her that we might need it. If she just calmed down and thought for a moment she might work out what I'm doing, but I don't have time to turn back and try and fit my explanation in around her negative assumptions. Instead I dive into the dimness of the large car and hit the button sending it, and me, on the journey down to the staff parking level.

You'd think Mom would make an effort to chill out today at least, but everything has to be a drama with her, which is kind of funny considering it's me who wants to go into show business.

I really thought Mom would be pleased when she heard my plans for celebrating my "Sweet Sixteenth", considering the huge, elaborate parties I've already been invited to by some of my friends at Butterfield. In fact she got quite misty eyed when I told her that I just wanted to spend the day itself with her, Gran and my aunt, and that the only party I wanted was a small gathering to say thank you to the guys who were my honorary aunts and uncles while I was growing up – which pretty much means that it's a party for her friends, not mine.

It didn't last long though, as soon as I said I wanted to book the rooftop pool at the Eclipse as the venue Mom started to moan, she wanted me to settle for a back yard barbecue, 'cause she thought some people wouldn't want to strip off for swimming, but for me the pool was essential, and it's not like I'm intending on forcing anyone into the water if they really don't want to. Besides, Mom being a major shareholder in this hotel has its perks, even if everything's tied up with some legal mumbo jumbo that lets her claim that there's no clash of interest between the business and Mom's CSI work. We're getting use of the pool for free and a discount on any food and drink, so it's not really costing us much more than the wages for the hotel chef and bar man who'll take care of the grill and wet bar.

Having the staff to deal with food and drink should have meant less for Mom to worry about and when she still complained I offered to organise everything, she just needed to call the manager and let him know that I was in charge and that everyone who'll be at the party except me is over age so it's OK to have a proper bar and then I'd deal with everything else. Mom just laughed at that, so all my plans had to go through her which left her way over stressed for no good reason.

I look at the elevator's indicator panel, still a ways to go, it's a long way from the rooftop to the basement and the service lift travels pretty slowly compared with the ones available to the guests. Hopefully the time I'm away will give Mom chance to calm down, although it's just as likely that she'll have smoke coming out of her ears by the time I get back. I just wish she'd take the time to use her CSI skills to figure out who is missing from this little gathering, because then she might 'deduce' just what I'm 'up to' right now. Unfortunately, I guess, I seem to be the one part of her life where she skips right over the evidence and leaps to the worst possible conclusion.

I know I had my moments after my Dad died, but now I can't seem to do anything without Mom assuming that, if I'm not being downright evil, then I must at least have an ulterior motive.

Take a couple of weeks ago, for example, I found out that one of the girls in home room with me wasn't doing anything for her sixteenth. We're friends because we both used to go to public school, before my Granddad started paying my fees and Nikki got herself a scholarship. Nikki's problem is that just 'cause she goes to Butterfield doesn't mean her folks have money, they're stretched just paying for the 'extras' her scholarship doesn't cover. Nikki was too embarrassed to have a party at home when everyone else seemed to be booking these grand venues, so she just wasn't going to bother at all. I knew she was upset about it, so I offered to ask Mom about getting her a room for free, but she thought her parents would be too proud to accept, so I suggested we make it a joint party.

I was trying to be kind, but when I told Mom she just went off on one about it being my plan all along so I could have two parties and how much extra work it would be for her. In the end she reluctantly agreed to us having the party a week from now. Since then she's been obsessing so much about today that I don't think she's realised that she hasn't had to do anything all for the 'joint' party. I'm getting what I want today, so now that the room is organised, I'm leaving it to Nikki and her parents to arrange everything the way that she wants it. I'm even saving Mom chaperone duty, I've persuaded her and Nikki's parents not to cramp our style, provided Nikki and I come up with a pair of chaperones who are acceptable to everyone. And there, I admit, I have got a devious plan, because I intend to fix that part of the deal today. Riley's bound to be up for it and Greg likes to think he's still part of the 'young' group, so he'll be flattered, my friends will think they're pretty cool, Nikki's parents will be impressed that they're with law enforcement and Mom can't object without looking like she doesn't trust members of her team. I even sneaked a peek at the roster for next weekend when she brought it home and it's Greg's regular day off, he must have taken leave for today, and Riley's marked down for a day in lieu, probably to make up for her filling in tonight.

Finally, the elevator is grinding to a halt, which is a little worrying considering the Eclipse is still practically new. I turn the master key the way Hal showed me to, so that the car will be held on this level until we're ready to ascend again, and then step out, looking around with a grin on my face to see how well I've managed to time things.

Perfect, as I turn to the right the first thing I see is Uncle Gil, dressed in casual sweats, he's sitting sideways in the passenger seat of a dark blue minivan, the door open and his legs facing outwards while he waits for his carer, Lucy, to emerge from the rear of the van with his wheelchair. When he sees me he grins and opens his arms and I head over as fast as my espadrilles will let me to complete the hug.

"'Inds," he greets me, adding a kiss to the top of my head.

"Hi, Uncle Gil, I'm glad you made it, it wouldn't feel like my birthday without you."

I give Lucy a nod and smile when she appears and she grins back, clearly everything's going well so far. I offer Uncle Gil a steadying hand as he steps down from the cab and settles himself into the now waiting wheelchair. He indicates for me to lead the way and then drives after me as Lucy locks the van and then walks beside him, a small holdall in her hand.

The service lift may not be the grandest of ways for him to arrive upstairs, but Uncle Gil is only just getting used to being out in public again and this way, with the security override on, we can travel virtually all the way from the van's parking spot to poolside without having to manoeuvre his chair into one of the smaller public elevators or deal with other passengers getting in and out, some of whom might be less than polite and stare at my honorary uncle like he's just another Vegas sideshow.

While we travel I take hold my guest's left hand and squeeze. I lost my Father and Grandfather to violence and every time I see Uncle Gil I am reminded of how close I came to losing him the same way. He may not be entirely the same man I remember from when I was growing up, there will be no more stories, no more explanations that make more sense than anything my teachers say and no more butterfly hunts suggested with perfect timing to give me and Mom space to cool off. Still, he has fought back from the brink and the essence of our relationship remains. In fact his new demonstrativeness makes it even clearer that I have his unconditional love, blood relative or not.

The elevator reaches its destination and sun floods in as the doors part. The thunderous look on my Mom's face turns to astonishment and pleasure as she sees who it illuminates. I take a half step back as Uncle Gil begins to move his chair forwards. I am merely the hostess tonight, this is the first time Uncle Gil has faced such a large group beyond the safe environment of his home at Cottonwood House, and he is the Guest of Honour today. In my head he was always going to be.


	2. Catherine

**Cottonwood House III**

**The Hand You're Dealt**

Disclaimer: No, CSI: still isn't mine. *sigh*

**Chapter 2**

**Catherine**

The rising numbers on the elevator indicator panel may as well be linked to my blood pressure. What does Lindsay think she's doing? Half her guests seem to have arrived, using the _passenger_ elevator, since she left on her little excursion, they're all here to celebrate her birthday, most of them with gifts, and she's not here to greet them.

What on Earth can she be up to? The elevator went down to basement level, waited less than five minutes and now it's on its way back up, with no sign of stopping in between on either trip. Surely she isn't thinking she can get away with sneaking some of her friends in? We're hardly an easy group for any of her classmates to merge into; there are less than a dozen of us, mainly middle aged or getting there, and all trained observers, mostly CSIs past and present, plus one slightly jaded detective.

I may not know what my daughter's plan is right now, but I do know that, when she gets here, birthday or not, one young lady is going to get a piece of my mind. Huh, 'young lady' indeed, she better not try to claim that turning sixteen makes her a grown up after pulling this stunt.

I run my hand through my hair, pulling it back from my face. I need to calm down, if Lindsey isn't going to put an effort into making today go well then I'm going to have to do it. I just wish I had Gil Grissom's legendary composure right now.

How many times has Gil talked me down from situations like this in the past? He'd often tell me to try not to judge Lindsey too harshly, especially when he didn't think I had gathered all the 'facts'. Sometimes I needed to remind him that if anyone knows my daughter it's me. Occasionally I'd be so mad at his interference that I'd throw the fact he's never been a parent in his face. I don't know if that hurt him or not, but he always had my back while I tried to cope as a single Mom, as well as Lindsey's. Oh, how I miss that calm, steady, voice of reason.

OK, one more floor, I brace myself for whatever Lindsey's about to throw at me. Whatever it is I'll need to deal with it quickly to avoid it spoiling everyone else's day.

After the elevator doors slide open it takes me a moment to get my brain to adjust to the new situation. I thought I was ready for anything Lindsey could possibly have come up with, but I still wasn't prepared to see Gil Grissom rolling towards me with his new trademark grin in place.

As always now, when we meet, Gil demands a hug. His manner may be more relaxed these days and some of his behaviour almost childlike at times, but he is just as wise and perceptive as always. As we part his eyes tell me he knows exactly what I've been thinking and, from the way his lips are pursed as he tries hard not to laugh, he's highly amused by it all.

Or maybe he's just pleased with himself for being here at all.

You see, the reason it didn't even occur to me that Gil might come to this party is that I thought it would be too much for him to cope with.

As Sara comes forward to share her own hug with the new arrival I am reminded that only a little over six weeks ago Gil had to take a break from his therapies and rest completely for several days when the stresses brought on by his former fiancée's return pushed him over the edge into utter exhaustion. It wasn't Sara's fault, how could she be expected to know what Gil can or can't deal with when the rest of us are still learning, including him? She must be having enough trouble just dealing with her own reaction to his problems. She's right at the beginning of something that I'm not even certain has an end, a process both like and unlike grieving. Mostly I cope by following Gil's own lead and staying in the present, doing my best to be a good friend to the new Gil and trying to do the old Gil's job in a way that would make him proud. There are times when I'm still caught up in strong emotions though, and I do my best to avoid remembering the traumatic events of two years ago. To my shame that resulted in my failure to give Sara any warning before she was reunited with her former lover and that must have made the shock far more terrible.

Sara has learnt to be a little less full on with him already. Now she's said hello, kissed him on the cheek and whispered something in his good ear she has stepped away and gone to join some of the others. As for the rest of the team, Greg is wandering over to say 'hello', but the others are holding back, because they've learnt that it's better not to swamp him all at once.

With Greg distracting Gil I take my chance to pull Lindsey aside and ask her why she didn't tell me her 'Uncle' was coming. After all there are all kinds of arrangements that I should have been making to accommodate him. I'd also have put an end to any ideas about a pool party. I always knew Jim Brass would end up hovering around too embarrassed by his middle age spread to want to join in with the swimming and I'm sure that Gil will be even more reluctant. He wasn't really into those kinds of games before, but I know he'll hate having to sit watching the others be active now that it's no longer his choice whether or not he joins in.

"Mom, just relax, please? Lucy and I have Uncle Gil's needs covered, and it's not like nobody else is helping. The guys from the hotel are paid to make sure no-one gets hungry or thirsty, everyone who should be is here now and, in spite of how you all know each other, this is my birthday party, not a work social, and I don't want everyone worrying that they have to be on their best behaviour because your face says you're in full 'boss' mode. At least try and look as you're having fun or it won't just be the guys who've volunteered to cover tonight's shift who'll be getting ready to leave early."

Looking around I realise Lindsey's right. Already Lucy is setting her bag down where a pair of sun-loungers and a parasol shaded circular table have been conveniently placed, without me noticing, between the pool and the disabled bathroom and changing facilities. Thinking about it, I saw Lindsey pointing in that direction and talking to Nick, just before I got distracted by seeing her call the service elevator. Perhaps I've underestimated her a little, because I probably wouldn't have come up with that idea for bringing Gil up here to the roof.

"Hey, Birthday Girl," interrupts Greg, "Grissom wants you. I think he wants to be first to start handing over your presents."

Always the material girl, Lindsey is off at once. Out of the corner of my eye I notice Lucy stop what she's doing and focus a watchful eye on Gil, who is encouraging my daughter to remove a flattish rectangular package wrapped in coloured paper from the bag slung on the back of his wheelchair. While he watches, a hopeful smile on his face, Lindsey opens the gift, examines it, and then lifts her head to ask a question. The response is a nod and a widening of the smile, and my 'grown up' daughter, after placing the present carefully on a nearby table, practically climbs onto Gil's knees in order to give him a grateful embrace.

Satisfied that Gil hasn't been upset by a lacklustre reaction to his gift, Lucy goes back to what she was doing and I wander nearer to see what made Lindsey produce such an enthusiastic reaction.

At first I can't see why the gift has caused so much pleasure. Lindsey hasn't been a big fan of jigsaws since she was a young child, and this is a puzzle of Degas' 'The Dance Class', made of wood instead of cardboard and only about a hundred fifty pieces. Admittedly it's been completed and is nicely framed, but...

"Uncle Gil put it together all by himself!"

Lindsey bounces back to my side and takes the picture from me. Now I understand. Gil has been doing jigsaws as part of his occupational therapy, as a way to improve his hand/eye coordination, now he's been forced to become left-handed. Clearly the image was particularly chosen for Lindsey, but what makes the gift so touching is the time that Gil must have put into it. I can tell that my daughter will always treasure it for that reason alone.

Proudly, my very-nearly-sixteen-year-old takes her present over to the table where I had organized that she would open and display any presents she got today. Now that Grissom has kicked proceedings off the party gets underway and more presents soon come Lindsey's way but, even from this distance, I can see that everyone is expected to admire Gil's gift before she even starts to open the new one they are giving her.

While I'm checking that the buffet and grill are under control and the vegetarian options I ordered have been included, I notice that Jim Brass is hovering around, his hands shoved into the pockets of the long shorts he's wearing. This is one of the reasons I wanted Lindsey to have this party somewhere else. Then Jim could have kept himself busy by taking the traditional male role of barbecue chef, but here we have to let the hotel staff handle it, because the management aren't keen to be sued if someone gets burned. As a shareholder I can definitely see their point.

Which brings me to another reason why I wanted to avoid coming here, one which I didn't want to try and explain to Lindsey. Even though I didn't know that Sam Braun was my father for very long before he died, which was several years ago now, somehow he has managed to exert control over me and my family ever since.

Rarely unprepared, Sam's murder didn't mean that he died without an up to date Will, written with great attention to detail. Most of Sam's holdings were sold off to settle debts and set up trust funds, including one for my daughter, but he left me shares in this casino hotel, his final triumph. I can't even sell any of them until ten years after his death, although at least he had his lawyer make sure that holding them doesn't compromise my career. Cunningly Sam made sure that the shares give me benefits that make it hard to justify spending money on having gatherings like today's anywhere else but here, where we'll be reminded of him. Even though it can be very useful at times, like when I pulled strings to get Sara a free room here at the Eclipse, I can't help feeling resentful of his manipulations.

Lindsey's trust fund is governed by rules that mean any pay outs have to fund or reward 'positive' achievements. Still, at least he stuck to covering things like driving classes and a college place, not her first job as a show girl, shady business deal, or worse.

Speaking of which, at least we're not the only ones. Sam felt partially responsible when one of my half-brothers killed the other, but that doesn't mean surviving son, Walt, will automatically inherit. He'll only benefit if he gets released from jail early for good behaviour, and then he'll get his share as an income that will vanish if he ever breaks the law again.

My father was a control freak and hypocrite, right up to his death and beyond.

The first splashes can be heard from the pool behind me just as Jim is telling me that he'll be happy to keep Gil company while the younger guys have their fun. Suddenly he stops talking and stares over my shoulder towards the water.

"You know, Catherine, after beating so much else, I don't think Gil's prepared to let little things like age and vanity hold him back. Just take a look at that."

Gil, with a T-shirt on over a pair of swimming shorts, is already heading into the pool. My daughter was right about there being no lack of help from the people who care about him. Although Gil is walking on his own, his forearms are resting on Warrick's while the tall man walks backwards in front of him and Nick is walking behind the pair, alert for any sign of a loss of balance. Looking almost like a precious toddler and his attentive parents, the trio slowly make their way down the shallow steps that make the inner curve of the crescent shaped pool until Gil is in deep enough water to start swimming.

Now I finally understand why Lindsey was so insistent on having a pool party. On land Gil's movement related issues are obvious but in the water it only takes a single specially designed glove for him to be able to get around almost as easily as everyone else. Once again I realise that my daughter has been more thoughtful then I gave her credit for, the inflatable floating chair she was so insistent on is not a throne for the birthday princess, it, together with the submerged seats of the poolside bar, mean that when Gil wants a break from swimming he can have a rest or a drink without going to the effort of dragging himself out of the pool.

"Well, that's that then." Jim's voice interrupts my thoughts. "There goes my idea of sitting and drinking a few beers with Gil, watching the youngsters having fun. We might even have got waiter service. I guess the quickest way I'm going to get served now is if I get in there and make a fool of myself with the rest of them." Jim pats me on the arm. "If you can't beat them, join them. It's time for us old fogeys to get wet.

Old fogies indeed! Jim and Gil may be the only ones here who are old enough that Lindsey still calls them 'uncle', but I am a good few years younger than them and at least I'm already in my swimwear. Of course you can never be entirely sure if Jim Brass is being serious or just teasing, his ability to push people's buttons is one thing that has made him so very effective when questioning suspects. Still, I suppose it's time to take off my sarong and, as my daughter likes to put it, 'chill'. I just want to speak to one other person first.

Lucy seems to share Gil's uncanny ability to be fully aware of everything that's going on while having his head stuck in a book. Even though she seems engrossed in her novel, Lucy looks up as soon as I approach. I'm sure this also means that she knows exactly what's happening with Gil right now even though she doesn't appear to be watching.

"You're wondering if this is a good idea, aren't you?"

Lucy's perceptiveness allows her to deal with Gil's communication problems really well, but it can be disconcerting when it's applied to me.

"Is it?"

"Gil seems to think so."

I smile at that. Looking at the pool I can see Gil comfortably floating on his inflatable chair, a soda in his left hand, and flanked by a pair of blondes. On his right Riley has introduced herself and appears to be chatting with Gil as though they're having a regular two-way conversation. Lindsey, holding onto the chair on Gil's deaf side, seems happy to listen, kicking occasionally to stop the two of them from drifting out of the shadier half of the pool.

"I still wish Lindsey had checked with me before inviting him."

"She checked with me." Lucy informs me matter-of-factly.

"And you told her it wouldn't hurt for him to come?"

"I told her it wouldn't hurt for her to ask him. Whether Gil came or not was his choice."

"But Gil would do anything Lindsey asked him to and after..."

"And you don't think that Gil is fully aware of, and complicit in, that?"

Lucy cuts me off mid flow. I tend to forget that, in spite of the relatively short time since they first met, she knows Gil as well as I do. Maybe better, I find myself admitting, because her perception of him now isn't distorted by memories of his past. She's right, of course, now that I think of it, no one as stubborn as Gil is capable of being would allow a teenager to manipulate him, unless he was being deliberately indulgent.

Gil's carer takes pity on me.

"Catherine, believe me, before he finally accepted Lindsey's invitation, Gil and I went through this in great detail. He balanced the thought of disappointing Lindsey against the probabilities of him having problems that might spoil tonight for her, or making her feel guilty if he suffers later as a result. "That's why Lindsey didn't let you know Gil was coming, by the way, so don't blame her. Gil didn't want many people expecting him to be at the party so that he didn't have to worry about them being upset if he had to cry off at the last minute. Even Lindsey wasn't certain he'd make it until I called her to say we were leaving Cottonwood House to come here.

"Gil's a grown man, Catherine; whatever his health issues are, he's able and entitled to make his own decisions. If I don't think something's a good idea I might try and talk him out of it but, in the end, the choice is always his. I'm here to enable Gil if he wants to do something, no matter what, I'll do my best to facilitate it, and today he wants to be here."

"But he took such a hit after Sara's return." I'm watching the brunette as I speak, Sara seems unsure about whether or not to join Gil's little 'harem' or let Lindsey and Riley have his attention for now while she joins the men. Gil's emotional collapse on top of the initial shock of seeing him like he is now seems to have left her feeling very unsure of herself where he's concerned. "Shouldn't he be avoiding this kind of stress right now?"

"Maybe, but that's Gil's call. If he feels ready to take the risk then we should support him. If we don't let him push himself he'll never know what he's capable of doing." Lucy stops and touches me on the arm before she continues.

"You're his friend and I know you're concerned about him, but remember why I'm here. I'll keep an eye on Gil, if I think he's struggling, or if he asks for me to help, I'll be at his side straight away. That's why I came here today; I'm not a party guest. It's Lindsey's birthday and you're her Mom, go be with her and have fun, and trust me to do my job."

"Thank you, I will, but just because you don't see yourself as a guest doesn't mean that Lindsey doesn't or that I don't, you're Gil's friend as well as his helper, and that makes you a friend of nearly everyone here too, so come join in."

Lucy still refuses and I guess I see her reasoning; she needs to concentrate on Gil. Something else occurs to me too; with luck Gil may even be able to forget some of his handicaps for a while tonight and having his carer too nearby would make that harder. With a final request that Lucy help herself to food and drink whenever she feels like it, I leave her to her book.

Keeping my sarong in place as long as possible to avoid unflattering comparisons with my own daughter, I finally make it into the pool.


	3. Grissom

**Cottonwood House III**

**The Hand You're Dealt**

Disclaimer: No, CSI: still isn't mine. *sigh*

**A/N **Just a reminder that this is an AU from the episode _Goodbye and Good Luck_ onwards. Incidents seen in later episodes may still have occurred but not necessarily in the same way or in the same timescale or order. Don't worry, there are no real spoilers.

**Chapter 3**

**Grissom**

I have to admit it's a relief to lie back on the poolside lounger with Lucy seated on the one beside mine. Her hair is still damp after Lindsey achieved what her mother couldn't and got my caretaker into the pool with everyone else to make up the numbers on the female team in a game of five-a-side water something-or-other. I'm still not entirely sure what the game was or how it worked in a pool shaped to represent the partially eclipsed Sun, which is funny, considering that I was the referee. Still, with the help of a whistle Warrick had found somewhere, a lot of pointing, and strict adherence to the old maxim that the referee's decision is final, I think we ended up having a fun game of whatever-it-was. The women won, of course, it was a foregone conclusion with the birthday girl, Lindsey, as their captain – not that I was biased, of course.

In spite of doing my refereeing from the comfort of a floating "umpire's" chair it's still taken a lot from my limited store of energy, so I'm happy to be out of the water and settled with the back of this lounger tilted at just the right angle to allow me to relax and quietly observe what's going on around me.

The first shades of a Las Vegas sunset are becoming apparent in the sky and the two relative strangers at the feast have disappeared toward the changing rooms. With the help of a level 3 from Swing who wants to get more supervisory experience on her CV, Riley and Ray will be covering the Graveyard shift tonight, allowing the people who have known Lindsey longest, my former team, to stay into the evening.

I was interested to meet Riley properly for the first time today.

It took me a long time to acknowledge that I needed to hire someone to replace Sara at the Crime Lab, because it was a task that seemed as impossible to me as filling the hole her departure had left in my heart.

In the end, after gentle nudges from team members fed up of losing their rota days off to provide cover, and more forcible ones from Conrad Ecklie, I went about the process of recruiting a CSI level 2, a grade that should allow the newcomer to start picking up some slack straight away. After checking through a number of application forms and conducting a handful of 'phone interviews, Riley came out top of the list.

I called to let her know, set up a starting date and then...

By the time I was conscious of the outside world again, Riley's first days at the lab were old news and I never heard a great deal of detail about them. It must have been difficult for her though, joining the team just when they were trying to deal with what had happened to me. I suspect there may even have been one or two people who were hostile towards her simply because she wasn't Sara.

Catherine acknowledges that she may not have been paying enough attention to what Riley needed from her new supervisor, but who can blame her, she was juggling a sudden and unexpected promotion at work with the emotional challenges of having a critically ill friend. Something was going to give.

Ever since I pieced together the story from what my various hospital visitors thought might interest me I've admired Riley for sticking with it long enough for things to settle down, for people to get used to the new arrangements and for her to really become part of the team.

Now that I've had chance to get to know her a little I'm glad that she did stay. She has an energy about her that reminds me of Greg when he was younger and it's accompanied by a confidence in communicating with people that I have never had. She showed it today by being completely unruffled by my aphasia. She introduced herself and thanked me for giving her a job in a city where very few cases turn out to be mundane and then gave me an example by talking about her very first case here, involving posed dead people, some of whom seemed to have forgotten to fall down. Her way of telling the tale was so lively and full of humour that it just didn't matter that I couldn't make any verbal responses. She even had Lindsey interested, even though Catherine's daughter hasn't developed the dark sense of humour that unites CSIs and many others who deal with death in their daily work. I was just pleased that Riley actually used her ability to observe to decide if she was amusing me or not because some people just seem to assume I lost my ability to laugh along with my ability to talk.

It's a good time of day for the people attending this party, not too early for the ones who are used to working nights but not too late for those of us who don't. Lindsey is positively blooming as the lighting starts to come on and music begins to play at a low volume, altering the mood of the private pool area. Lindsey has selected instrumental versions of show tunes, very her but not too jarring for those of us who have 'older' tastes. It wouldn't be Lindsey's party if there wasn't at least some dancing, but she seems to be saving the more energetic stuff for her friends' gathering a week from now.

Catherine seems to have finally relaxed with the change of mood. I'm glad that she's starting to see her daughter as someone who has genuinely started to grow into an adult. Cath admitted to me in the past that sometimes she thinks she sees too much of Eddie, her late ex-husband, in Lindsey; or recognises too many of her own bad points, and judges her daughter according to the things she got up to as a teenager. Personally I occasionally see some of Catherine's positive sides in the teenager, but mostly I just see Lindsey, and maybe that's all it really takes to bring out the best in her.

Sometimes I think my 'niece' is a little too grown up though, she should have plenty of good reasons for learning to drive, including the car her inheritance will pay for if she gets good test scores in the process, but she tells me that the best thing will be being able to visit me more often out at Cottonwood House. If I hadn't been injured, would she have been so keen on visiting me now she's older? I don't think so, and I sometimes wish she'd be a normal selfish teenager and go out with her friends instead.

I feel a yawn building up. Maybe I should take the hint from my body and have a nap. Hopefully if I have half an hour now then I'll be able to avoid having to go home for a few hours longer.

Lucy catches my eye as the yawn releases itself.

"Should I tell Catherine that you would like her to arrange a room after all?"

I shake my head and then point to the recliner I'm lying on, to let Lucy know I intend to sleep here. Catherine's offer of a hotel room for me to use is kind, but I'd have to go down at least four floors to get to the nearest single room and Lucy would have to stay with me. The pool chairs around this exclusive pool are luxury standard with padded cushions, I'll be perfectly comfortable; and I won't feel so isolated if I stay up here, or guilty that Lucy will be getting bored with no-one to talk to while I sleep. I sit up briefly so that Lucy can lower the back of the seat and then I lie down on my right side. The sounds around me instantly fade to almost nothing proving that being completely deaf in one ear can have its advantages. Lucy drapes one of the large fluffy hotel towels over me as a makeshift blanket and then resumes her position beside me. I must be even more worn out than I thought because the simple action of lying down is enough to send me almost immediately to sleep.

I'm not sure how long it is since I drifted off or what has caused me to drowsily crack my eyes open but, as I look over to the neighbouring recliner I see that Lucy has somehow morphed into Sara. I'm pleased, I haven't had much chance to interact with her today, especially not one on one. Unfortunately I'm still so tired that the best I can do is let her know I'm aware of her presence by reaching out and nudging her gently with my hand. The way she jumps when I touch her is pretty funny and I let a smile curl my lips so she knows I saw her. Even as I do so my eyes are closing again.

Another brief awakening, this time the cause is a slight pull on my arm. A momentary glance shows me that Sara is playing with the fingers of my right hand, something that has become a habit of hers since we met again two months ago. At first she didn't realise that I couldn't feel her when she did that, but she knows that now and still she chooses to hold my right hand instead of my left. Right now the way that I'm lying down means that my right arm is under me, which is why I felt it when she pulled on my fingers, and yet she still picked that hand over the more accessible left one. I don't know why she does that and I haven't worked out a way to ask her but it sometimes seems like she's seeking to have that physical contact with me, but is afraid of me knowing how she feels.

I'm glad I've caught her this time. The changes in our circumstances and my desire to re-learn our relationship seem to have resulted in our dancing around each other just like we did years ago. The only difference is that somehow, in spite of my limitations, I have managed to make Sara aware of some of my fears and concerns about the possibilities of a future together, and she is less inclined to become angry with me if my efforts miss the mark. Unfortunately her anger seems to have been replaced by diffidence around me, particularly since the incident at the restaurant that tipped me over into an emotional outburst that must have scared her. Sara has been so careful around me since that day that, if it weren't for the fact that she has carried through the plan she told me about that afternoon and found herself a home and a job in Vegas, I'd be worried that she was going to leave me behind again. We have a lot of work to do, but moments like this, with Sara holding my hand, however tentatively, make me optimistic.

I wish I was able to build on that hope right now but I am so very tired that all I can do is drift away again, a smile on my face.

When I surface once more Sara's feminine features have been replaced by the familiarly craggy profile of Jim Brass. It would be quite disconcerting, but I got quite used to these apparently sudden changes in companionship back when I was in Desert Palm's neurological unit. Unable to move even enough to press a call button and with my lower face bandaged so tightly after the reconstructive surgery on my jaw that I couldn't open my mouth to make much noise, it was important that I have someone with me constantly in case I woke up in distress. A rota was arranged amongst the team so that, as much as possible, it would be someone familiar sitting with me and I got used to those faces changing what seemed like constantly to me, due to my initially infrequent periods of wakefulness.

With an incoherent grunt I flip onto my back, allowing the sounds of splashing, music, talk and laughter to suddenly re-enter my world. With a grin, Jim sets his beer on the table beside us.

"Hey there, Sleeping Beauty, had a good nap?"

I blink at him just once, but he gets the message.

"Not bad, but still feeling a bit washed out, huh?" Ever the detective, Jim has gathered that from the fact that, although I signalled 'yes' in answer to his question, I did it the lazy way, without raising my head to nod. "So does that mean you need bit of propping up?"

I blink again and Jim offers an arm to help me sit up. Once there I manage to stay upright long enough for my friend to arrange the back rest and cushions before leaning back with a relieved sigh.

"Catherine dragged Lucy away to have a drink while you were sleeping and you sound like you could use one too."

This time I manage a proper nod.

"So are you sticking to soda?" Jim raises his left hand in a fist. "Or are you going to push the boat out and join me in a beer? He picks up his abandoned bottle in his right hand and then holds the two hands widely spaced. If I didn't like either option I'd just look at Jim's face but, after a moment's thought, I direct my gaze at the beer. I'll need to take it slowly, but just one won't be too much of a problem and this is a celebration after all.

"OK," Jim grins, pleased to have found a drinking partner, "I'll be right back with a nice cold one for you."

Jim heads off to the bar and I relax again. I was hoping to feel a lot more refreshed after sleeping, but maybe I just need a little more time to wake up properly again.

I look around and confirm that Lucy is indeed sitting on a bar stool in the pool next to Catherine, I hope she stays there and enjoys her break for a while, she deserves it and Jim seems to have me covered.

Turning my head the other way I notice that I'm being approached by Ray, the man hired a year ago to make the numbers up on Graveyard once it was clear that I would never be returning to the Lab. I'm surprised to see the Afro-American because I thought he was leaving earlier with Riley, so that they could both get some rest before going on shift at midnight.

"Doctor Grissom? I hope I'm not disturbing you, Sir, but I didn't want to leave without paying my respects. You have been a great inspiration to me in finding and pursuing my new career as a CSI and, seeing you here today, I now realise that the recovery you have made from such severe head injuries is inspirational too."

I'm a little surprised to find that I actually feel a little intimidated. I was never comfortable with this kind of effusive praise, but the real problem is his physical presence. He'd probably tower over me even if I was standing up and even though that wouldn't have been a problem for me in the past, I find it hard to ignore now. I guess it's as much about a loss of confidence as my weakened physical state, even if Langston wasn't so big, I'm just not very comfortable with someone who is practically a stranger standing so close to me. I swallow deeply.

Thankfully Ray does seem to have some awareness of his own physicality, and mine, because he offers his left hand for me to shake and then sits on the end of the lounger Jim recently vacated, making his presence a little less overpowering.

"Before I came across you and your team I was lecturing about serial killers based on a book I wrote. I thought failing to identify one in time and then doing a lot of research made me some kind of expert. Finding out what you guys did made me realise I didn't have a clue and set me off on a whole new career track."

I must look confused; I have no memory of ever meeting this guy.

"I don't know how much of the story you have had from Catherine and the others, so perhaps I should explain: I am a medical doctor and I didn't want to waste my training while I was doing my lecture tour, so whenever I could I volunteered to work in clinics and hospitals during my free time. I was on duty in the emergency room at Desert Palm Hospital when you were brought in. I must admit I didn't have much of a part to play, you were semi-conscious, the airway the EMTs inserted was all you needed to breathe and your heart was doing fine, probably because your autonomic functions were unaffected by the initial injuries, but it was vital to control any bleeding and swelling in your brain as soon as possible before they did become compromised. The neurological and maxillofacial teams had already been alerted while you were still en route and they didn't want to risk your condition worsening so, after I sent you for an MRI, you were taken straight to an OR from there and I didn't see you again."

It takes me a little time to understand all the abbreviations Ray has used. Although my aphasia is expressive, not receptive, acronyms can be a challenge because I find it hard linking the initials to the words they represent. Once I've deciphered it, the story is an interesting picture of events on the day I was attacked, but it doesn't feel like I'm the one he's talking about, it never does. I have no memory of my own of what happened and I'm glad, because that means it's easy to dissociate from it all.

"Then the Crime Lab team started to arrive, and the more of them that came, the more I wondered about you. I've spent a lot of time in Emergency Rooms and, believe me; it's rare for someone to mean so much to their workmates that they have any of them turning up after they're injured unless it was a workplace incident. Most people don't even manage to assemble that many family members with such speed and urgency. Even if that and the obvious regard that many of the EMTs had for you hadn't intrigued me, your medical condition would have done. I kept up with your progress while you were in the neurological ICU and got the chance to talk with some of your colleagues while they were there to visit you, and the more I found out about the job you were all doing, the more I realised I wanted to do it too."

It's clear from his precise recollections that my injuries had an impact on him and, if he still wanted to take up the career after he saw first-hand what being a CSI cost me, then no-one can deny it's a vocation. It was for me and even after all that has happened I don't regret that.

"Once you were out of the ICU I had fewer excuses to drop in and your friends were more interested in interacting with you than talking to some stranger, so I let things slide until I was coming to the end of my time teaching at WLVU. I would probably have left without going any further with the idea, except I saw an article about you in the local paper; it said that the Mayor was going to present you with a civilian bravery medal because you'd been injured as a result of doing your duty. The same paper carried an advertisement for entry-level recruits at the LVPD crime lab. I suppose you could say that the rest is history."

Yes, I could, but only before the assault happened.

As for that medal, they waited long enough after the attack to see if it was likely to be a posthumous award, but I was still too ill to go and accept it so Conrad Ecklie, who likes a good award ceremony, went on my behalf. I think it's on display at the lab now, which is fine by me; it would just clutter up some drawer at home.

"Are you still here, Doctor Ray? I hope you're not saying anything too nice about my friend here, he's not good with flattery."

I smile weakly at Jim, hoping that my expression will say 'rescue me' more plainly to him than it does to Langston. It's not that I have a problem with him, I think we'd get along great if I was my old self, but I'm not and he's picked a bad time to talk and a bad subject to talk about – me.

"I was just expressing my admiration."

Jim shakes his head in mock sadness.

"That's really not a good idea you know, he always reacts badly."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Langston seems confused.

"Well, he needs to watch his blood pressure and as a doctor I'm sure you realise that blushing is a sign that there's too much blood going to his head. Plus, considering the trauma it's already suffered do you really want to run the risk of that noggin of his starting to grow?"

Jim's comments diffuse the situation with humour but, in spite of his much smaller stature, his body language is definitely telling Langston to go. The tall man looks at me and maybe he takes in something about my tired appearance that warns him off too, because he quickly says his good-byes and heads off to the lift.

Jim hands me a beer and sits down with a fresh one of his own.

"Langston's an OK guy, he's already doing a good job as a CSI, but he can be kind of overpowering, especially when we were used to a low-key guy like you. You always know when he's around and sometimes it feels like that's all the time. He's easier to deal with in small doses 'til you get used to him." Jim muses.

"Sorry about the delay rescuing you, but would you believe I had to wait in line? OK, so it was only that Sara and Nick happened to get to the bar just as I was arriving, but it took a few minutes for us all to be served."

I nod my acceptance of his explanation and we both sit back sipping at our beers. It's a pleasant feeling sitting here with Jim but once my drink is done I'll probably let Lucy know it's time to leave. It's been a very, very long day.


	4. Lucy

**A/N ** Sorry about the wait, it was due to a combination of technical issues and a touch of writer's block. Still, at least this is a long chapter to make up for it.

**Cottonwood House III**

**The Hand You're Dealt**

Disclaimer: No, CSI: still isn't mine. *sigh*

**Chapter 4**

**Lucy**

I put a pan on to heat some milk and then prepare two mugs; Gil's, with an extra large handle, gets malted milk powder and cocoa powder goes into mine. Gil has gone through to prepare himself for bed. I'm pleased that he's chosen to get ready by himself, just as he'd do on a normal night, but I know he's tired, so I'm not going to change out of the clothes I wore to Lindsey's party just yet. While I prepare our drinks I'm keeping an ear open in case I'm needed urgently and I've made sure that he has his alert button around his neck, the receiver for which is now back in its regular place, clipped to my waistband.

I'm pleased with how well things have gone today, but now it's my job to make sure things continue to run smoothly and no unpleasant after-effects spoil the memory of success, discouraging Gil from doing something similar again in the future. Luckily it's Saturday, so he has no formal therapy sessions tomorrow and, because I knew he'd be in a swimming pool today, I've arranged with his physical therapist Daniel that Monday morning's session won't be in the pool as normal, but will be a massage therapy session instead.

Even the hot drink is part of my master plan. Gil certainly won't need any help to get to sleep tonight, but this will help settle any stomach discomfort that might arise from the unaccustomed party nibbles and I'm hoping he'll sleep late in the morning, so something that might stop hunger waking him up seems like a good idea.

While the milk continues to warm I potter around the living room straightening a few things and clearing away the remnants of the day. There's not much to tidy up really, Gil seems to be a naturally organised person and, with him using a wheelchair so much, anything that falls on the floor has to be retrieved quickly before it gets run over.

The latest addition to the living area is a drawing board. Drawing is right brain based, so it should be possible for Gil but his partial paralysis won't make it easy and that's why the activity has only just been introduced to his program. Gil and his occupational therapist are still trying to work out what works better, for Gil to try and hold a pen or pencil in his left hand or to strap the drawing tool to his right hand instead. I hope they manage to work something out. Being able to draw will add an important additional string to Gil's communication options, allowing him to include things in his 'conversation' which aren't physically present to be pointed at and without the delay and frustration of seeking the right image from a picture source book like the one currently lying on the couch where Gil half threw it in disgust this morning.

I gather together a couple of magazines of my own. Even though this purpose built apartment includes a bathroom and a spacious bed-sitting room of my own I spend so much time with Gil that my possessions have developed a tendency to wander into the main living area. As well as being a 'translator' when Gil needs to interact with other people I try to spend about an hour a day in concentrated communication with him. Normally Gil chooses a topic, something he'd like me to know, something he'd like me to help me with, or maybe just something he's read about or seen on TV, and then we 'discuss' it using as many techniques as necessary for Gil to get his side across. Sometimes we just dive in but if Gil thinks the topic might be difficult or complex then he'll try and let me know in advance so that I can get together appropriate material. Normally I arrange this in the form of a communication sheet, a large piece of paper with words and pictures that might be useful for Gil to point at while we 'talk'. But that's just the formal stuff, any opportunity that can allow Gil the chance to express himself needs to be grabbed and made use of, so the more time I spend with him the better, especially as the more I get to know him, the easier communication is. That's not just a case of familiarity with his body language, something as simple as learning that Gil likes to drink Mountain Spring or Dr. Pepper's more often than some other sodas means that I can offer him those first, when otherwise it might take several questions to work out which soda he wants. Not that I need to as if Gil wants a cold drink much anymore, he usually gets his own now he's mobile enough to go and reach into the fridge. However, for safety reasons, I still need to be around if Gil wants to make himself a hot drink.

Speaking of hot fluids, I catch the pan just before it's too late and add the hot milk to the mugs. Gil probably isn't finished getting ready yet so there's time for them to cool before I add just a sprinkling of cinnamon to Gil's drink, a small preference of his that it took him a long time to work out how to ask for, an example of just how frustrating aphasia can be when it can block even the simplest of requests.

All this interaction has ended up with us becoming as good friends as it's possible to be in the context of caretaker and client. I used to retreat to my own room once Gil was settled for the evening, coming back only to make sure he could get to bed OK, but now he asks me to stay and keep him company and I enjoy our quiet companionship whenever I do. We're a good partnership now, but I can't be sure why Gil chose me over the other caregiver/communication partners he was introduced to when he first arrived at Cottonwood House, although I have my suspicions. Shortly before I was told that Gil had expressed a preference for me it was my turn to visit him in his room in the main building which is where new arrivals and those with the most severe disabilities are accommodated, and when I went in I found him crying. It was early days then, Grissom, as I knew him at the time, was still largely paralysed on his right side and what little movement he had there was weak. More importantly, from my point of view, was that he was completely withdrawn and barely even trying to communicate. Although it was important to find the right helper for Gil, it was even more important for him to start one to one communication work soon, before he fell into deep depression.

Typically for someone in the 'emerging communicator' phase Grissom turned his head when I greeted him, only not towards me. He clearly didn't want me to see him crying, but with so few messages getting out of his mind and into the outside world, I had to work with what I could. Seeing a magazine discarded on the bed in much the same way as Gil tossed his communication book today I guessed the tears might be something to do with that. It took a lot of effort, Gil wasn't feeling very co-operative and didn't always want to even try giving a yes or no response, even though I knew he could, but in the end, having ruled out physical frustration with holding the magazine or turning the pages and the content of an article making him sad, I eventually established that he was upset because there was a crossword in the magazine and he had found it indecipherable. Having the impact of his aphasia on something he used to love doing thrown into focus that way had deeply upset him.

I don't know if it was the discovery of a shared interest in puzzles; the sense of achievement at finally completing a successful communication, one that showed to me he wasn't far from moving up to the next level of communication ability if he could be persuaded that he wanted to try; or because I suggested that, given time it may be possible to find other challenging puzzles that he could enjoy, even if crosswords might remain beyond him; but the next day, when offered a selection of photographs of his choice of potential aphasia specialist caregivers, he picked mine. I've been working with him ever since, and while jigsaws are the only puzzles Gil has yet managed I have one or two ideas stored up, I'm just waiting to see how well my friend can manage to use a pen or pencil before I introduce them. Gil's basic math skills appear intact, so number puzzles are a possibility if we can work out a way for him to fill them in, logic problems may be good for him because they'll challenge his language abilities but only need boxes to be marked to represent either 'yes' or 'no' and Sudoku can work with any symbols or even colours, provided Gil can distinguish and use nine variations. I'm looking forward to helping him try.

It's time to check on Gil. Leaving our drinks to cool a little longer I grab Gil's regular meds and a glass of water and then go and knock on his bedroom door. I wait a minute and when there's no response I enter. If Gil actively wanted me to keep out he'd have made some noise, because he may not have heard me or, worse, may not be in a position to respond because he's fallen or hurt himself some other way, it makes more sense to have Gil signal if he wants me to go away than to wait for him to invite me in.

I enter to see Gil safely seated on his bed wearing his skull print pyjama pants and in the process of putting on one of the loose t-shirts he likes to sleep in. His left arm is already through one sleeve and, as I put down the pills on his bedside locker, he manages to guide is other hand through its own armhole. After that's done his head appears quickly, wearing an 'I did it' grin.

I smile back. "I was making myself cocoa and thought I'd make malted milk for you while I was at it. Is that OK?"

The response is positive so I offer the option of drinking it here or in the living area and a pointing finger indicates Gil would like his while he's in bed. When I turn to go and fetch it I hear a call of "'Ucy," from behind me and Gil manages to put together a 'sentence', pointing at me, making a drinking motion and then pointing at the only chair in the room. I confirm that he's asking me to keep him company and then go and fetch both mugs. When we first met Gil could indicate 'yes' or 'no' and point to things, but only in response to questions and he was unable to initiate communication for himself. The fact that he just managed to say my name as a sign he wanted to say something and then use multiple gestures to clearly show me what he wanted is great, especially after such a tiring day. Even though his intent was so clear I still needed to double check with him, it's important not to assume and risk leaving Gil frustrated because of _my _lack of understanding. I also try not to make decisions on Gil's behalf, even small ones, and the only reason I didn't ask him if he wanted hot milk before I made it was because Gil was in the bathroom and I don't disturb him there if I can avoid it. Hopefully he would still have indicated 'no' if he didn't want it, especially as he knows by now that I wouldn't be offended if he did.

Thinking about making decisions for Gil, I remember something I need to say to him so, once we're both settled, I begin.

"I have a confession to make, Gil. I was by the bar when Jim Brass came to order beer for you both and I suggested a low alcohol brew might be a better idea. You should really have been given the choice, but Jim saw Ray Langston sit down beside you and wanted to get back so he just grabbed the bottles and you ended up with the LA version without being consulted." Gil shakes his head slowly in disapproval, but there's a smile on his face. His brow furrows briefly and I know he's trying to figure out how to say something. I wait patiently, letting him work the problem through for himself. I don't offer to help; he'll let me know if he wants it from me.

After a moment Gil looks at me and raises his hand to tap himself on the forehead.

"You knew?"

A nod comes in response, followed by a mime of him holding something in his hand and looking at it.

"You saw the label?" He gives another nod. "I should have remembered that nothing much gets past you." Gil grins and shakes his head. I know him well enough not to have to ask if he agreed that the LA was a good idea. If he hadn't then he'd have found a way to let Jim know he wanted the same as the detective was drinking, either by pointing or just sneaking Jim's own bottle when he wasn't looking. Gil's not afraid of arguing or taking liberties with Jim because there's a relaxed, half-teasing comradeship between those two which, as far as I can tell, existed before Gil's brain damage and has survived relatively unaffected. I'm glad of that, because Jim holds full power of Attorney for his friend now that Gil can't always express his wishes clearly enough for legal purposes and having such an embarrassment free friendship helps them both deal with that necessity and the possible awkwardness associated with it. It's also good for Gil not to feel he's being treated with kid gloves all the time.

After our exchange Gil and I don't try and make any further 'conversation', he's tired and needs to relax so he can sleep and making the effort required to communicate isn't a good idea for him right now.

His drink finished, Gil hands his mug over to me and grabs a tissue to clean away the froth of foam that has gathered endearingly on his moustache. I notice him glance towards the bathroom door and I reassure him that, as he's brushed his teeth already it won't do much harm not to go and do it again, just for once.

"Get some sleep Gil, you've earned it. I'll be up and about for another couple of hours at least so don't worry about letting me know if you need anything. I suggest you don't set your alarm tonight either, let's just see what time you wake up tomorrow and you can decide what you want to do with the rest of the day then."

Gil nods his acceptance, looking at me wearily. I often tell people to look into Gil's eyes and see the acute intelligence that's there if they are concerned that the cause of his disabilities has also affected his intellect, but when the irises appear softened and darkened by sadness, pain, fear or tiredness I find it hard to resist the urge to mother him. I do though, because Gil's a grown man and there's no way I would embarrass or humiliate him by treating him as anything other than an adult.

Well, not most of the time anyway.

When caring for someone with a brain injury you soon learn that there's an exception to pretty much every rule. While Gil is highly sensitive to any hint that he is being patronised or babied because of his disabilities the changes caused to his personality have left him emotionally exposed. Sometimes he finds himself in a situation when that exposure leaves him desperately seeking comfort. I suspect that he likes that comfort in physical form as a result of his brush with total paralysis, when he had almost no physical sensations at all. There are many times when I've soothed him while he's cried on my shoulder. I try and keep track of Gil's motivations when seeking this kind of support, it should never become an opportunity to manipulate me to do something for him that he's capable of doing himself, or be allowed to become a method of avoidance. Those things are unlikely though because one thing I know for sure about Gil is that he is very uncomfortable about demonstrating what I think he believes to be a weakness, so when he seeks comfort it's usually because he has no idea how else to cope. Quashing the brief flash of maternalism I rise to leave and let Gil settle for the night, but just as I do I hear Gil's voice.

"'Ucy? 'Ug?" Gil's request is almost plaintive.

When Gil asks for a hug it's always interesting, I would never initiate that kind of contact because of the 'mothering' issues, but when Gil asks for a hug I always oblige. It's a form of communication for him and it's my job to facilitate that, not ignore it. When Gil does it on first meeting his friends he's saying much the same as anyone else in that situation, 'hello', 'I love you' or, if he's feeling insecure, 'do you still love me?' At times like this though he may be using his hug to say 'thank you' or he may want reassurance for some reason. I'll need to read his face and the way he performs the hug to work out which.

With my arms around Gil it's good to feel the muscle tone and body mass that he has gained since arriving at Cottonwood House. It's not the bulk he might have achieved if he was a manual wheelchair user, but it's appropriate for a man of Gil's age and build and a vast improvement on when we first met. I interpret this hug as mostly 'thanks', although some of the nuances combined with the tone he used in his request say he needs just a little more reassurance. I respond accordingly.

"I'm glad I was able to take you today, Gil, I think it went well for everyone."

It's a pleasure to see a smile spread across Gil's face. He reaches over to his bedside table and there's a whirring noise as his bed slowly flattens, clearly Gil doesn't need to read himself to sleep tonight. My offer to get the light receives a nod in reply so I watch from the doorway while the weary man settles himself into his usual sleeping position, on his right side, deaf ear up, right arm positioned so that his paralysed hand is protectively placed on the pillow beside his head where it won't accidentally get squashed and have the blood supply reduced. When we first met he hated having his good ear blocked and it's a positive sign that he's now more relaxed and less afraid of his deafness, he appreciates being able to make things quiet while he sleeps instead of fearing he'll be caught out by something he cannot hear.

Seeing Gil's eyes drifting peacefully shut I turn off the light and retreat, touching the button that will close the automatic sliding door softly behind me.

With Gil in bed early I can put aside the immediate challenges of working with him and use the time to consider what I learned while watching what happened at the party today. Is there anything that I can learn from it that needs to be explored with Gil later, whether it's something positive or negative?

Today is the first time since I've been working with him that Gil has been part of such a large group. He doesn't often have more than a couple of visitors at once and on the few occasions, like his birthdays, when there have been more it has been on home ground here at Cottonwood House. Gil was very keen to attend the party and with Lindsey there to be a focus of attention instead of him it seemed worth trying. We did have a fast exit strategy in place, but I'm pleased to say it wasn't needed.

In fact the party was a real success for him, it showed just how well Gil can manage simple exchanges with people he knows well, helped by the fact that those friends have put in the effort to learn some basic strategies to help their friend communicate. With so much water around we decided that Gil would try to manage without his speech computer and it wasn't a major problem. Gil has been a fast learner with the device but he does far better when he can pre-plan what he's going to say and creating ad hoc speech can be quite hit and miss; so it's never going to be a miracle solution for him. I don't think he really missed it and I also got the chance to observe how Gil dealt with challenges when he couldn't give himself space by pretending to hunt around his touch screen looking for an appropriate word.

Gil's immediate circle all interacted with him in much the way I'd expected; Greg and Jim treated him just as they always do; Catherine, Nick and Warrick can all be a little too protective of Gil at times, but the men seemed to relax once they saw how confident he was about moving in the water; and Catherine, once I'd reassured her a little, just included Gil in her general anxiety about being a good hostess to everyone. In fact, once she saw that Gil was happy and taken care of by the others, Catherine became focussed on getting me to take time out and be a guest instead of concentrating on my responsibilities.

Although I don't know Lindsey as well as I know the others because she has to find a ride before she can come out here and see Gil, I'd already gathered that as far as her love and concern for her 'Uncle' Gil is concerned, she's a very remarkable young woman. Our 'phone conversations before the party showed her mature attitude to Gil's needs, but I admit I was a little anxious about how she would receive his gift to her. As it turned out I think I was almost as pleased with her reaction as Gil himself was. She must have worked out how much effort it took him to put the puzzle together, even if she didn't include factors like the effort required to select and order the right jigsaw in the first place or to explain to me that he wanted it framed, because she seemed as proud of him as I believe he is of her.

Of the two guests who were strangers to him, Gil seemed to do much better with the young woman, Riley. Although she made the mistake of not giving Gil the time and space necessary to formulate a response to what she was saying, Riley was clearly tailoring her conversation to him. I noticed that Gil was laughing a lot even when Lindsey, who was also listening, wasn't. I know the laughter was genuine too, because if Gil was ever the kind to laugh just out of politeness he doesn't have those kinds of social graces now, he can't convincingly fake what he doesn't feel and finds it almost impossible to mask what he does.

Doctor Langston was a different matter. I noticed that Gil was avoiding him, probably quite subconsciously, from early on. It wasn't unusual or surprising to me; Gil is uncomfortable with strangers, due to a combination of concern about how he might be perceived and frustration at his inability to oppose any conclusions they might draw. Gil would probably have treated Riley the same way, except she didn't give him the chance. Today was about fun, not making Gil work, so I just tried to keep an eye on the situation although I'd noticed that Gil's friends were shielding him from Langston, whether they were aware of doing that or not.

Letting things ride worked during the afternoon but as evening drew in I was persuaded to take a break while Gil napped. Some of the guys volunteered to sit beside him while I had a fruit juice with Catherine and Jim Brass was there when Gil woke up. Shortly afterwards Jim came over to the bar to fetch them both drinks. While Jim was waiting to be served, Langston, who I thought had left, approached Gil. Jim moved quickly to rejoin his old friend, a bit too fast, I thought at first because I wanted to give Gil the chance to at least try and deal with the stranger on his own, but Jim had the advantage of knowing them both and in the end, I think he made the right decision. I'm not sure if it was anything specific about Langston, the fact that Gil was just waking up, or the blow that Gil had to his confidence when things went wrong at the restaurant a few weeks back, but I could see Gil's anxiety surge rapidly to the point where he was probably beyond even considering which strategy might help him cope, let alone managing to apply it. Fortunately Jim's rapid response meant he was able to get to the two men, find an amicable way to get Langston to leave without the additional stress of a confrontation and was kicking back beside his rapidly relaxing friend before I'd gotten much further than getting out of the pool.

I left Jim and Gil to get on with it then. I shouldn't have let Catherine talk me into that drink, but I think it probably worked out OK for Gil. Over all he probably felt better being rescued by his old friend than having his caregiver come swooping in. With Jim Gil calmed down quickly and took the time to share a beer and enjoy some sense of normality before we came home. If I had been involved then, however good a job I might have done, Gil would have been rudely reminded that his life is no longer 'normal' and would probably have asked me to take him home straight away. We should still take some time to work on Gil's stress management and coping strategies though, whether I was right to leave Gil's side on this occasion or not, neither of us want him to feel that he needs my constant presence as some kind of protective shield whenever he's out.

Gil's reaction to Dr. Langston was probably the most dramatic event of the evening, but there was something else that caught my attention too, something I'm not sure if Gil noticed.

Gil wasn't the only party guest to be showing signs of avoidance and, unlike him, I think Sara was somewhat aware of what she was doing. She made sure that she was among the first to greet Gil when we arrived and I saw her say something to him so he'd remember that, but once Gil was distracted by Greg and Lindsey, Sara retreated. She was never conspicuously distant from Gil, but always far enough away that they couldn't catch each other's eyes. Other than when Gil was hugging people goodbye, the only time I saw the two of them together was while Gil was trying to sleep. If I hadn't seen the tenderness between them then, I would have seen Sara's avoidance in the context of their previous engagement and her very recent discovery of what has happened to her former fiancé and decided that she is preparing to withdraw from their relationship but just hasn't worked out how to tell Gil yet.

My first concern on seeing what was happening was that Sara may not have wanted to approach Gil while I was watching. Sara could easily have problems with me because my role in Gil's life means I am in such close contact with him. I share a home with Gil, I spend most of the day with him, I communicate with him better than she can right now and there are even times when I see him naked, although that's much less likely these days. If Sara tries to cope with that by reminding herself that I'm a professional caretaker then, in doing so, she has to accept her former fiancé's need for such a person, and that will bring its own kind of pain. It may actually be easier for her to consider me a rival. If that's the case I need to find a way to persuade her that I'm no threat.

Helping someone in Gil's situation explore the possibilities of a romance is always a challenge. In most other life situations it's not completely unusual to have a friend along for support and having me around is accepted as an extension of that. But, with the possible exception of a first date, this doesn't apply to romantic liaisons. How do you navigate the line between enabler and gooseberry?

I knew from Gil that he and Sara had been engaged in the past so I decided to err on the side of discretion and I've left them pretty much alone when they've been together. The first time she came to Cottonwood House I gave Sara some basic pointers on communicating with an expressive aphasic, hoping that her familiarity with him would help her spot at least a few of the non-verbal cues that can enhance understanding of Gil. I also made it clear to them both that they could come to me if they needed any help in future. Now I'm concerned about why Sara hasn't come to me for further information or advice. Perhaps I'm right and she doesn't want to talk about this with me, or maybe she feels they're managing well enough for now and that further recovery from Gil will make more effort on her part unnecessary, but if that's what she's thinking she needs to be told that that just isn't true.

Gil's communication skills are now at a stage referred to as 'stored message communicator', although he is rather less independent in his communication than many in that category. It's hard work and his incredible intelligence that's got him here, there has been no spontaneous improvement since he started to use people's names well over a year ago and his neurologist and I agree that this time span, coupled with the level of permanent damage to the actual material of Gil's brain, means there is unlikely to be any further improvement of this type. Even the progress from Gil's efforts has pretty much stalled over the last few months and while I'm hopeful that he'll gain a useful tool in learning to draw again it won't make much difference to how well he can communicate over all. While many couples do cope with similar situations, when someone with such a severe condition is involved then at least some formal training can be extremely useful. I would be willing to work with the two of them as a couple or there are charity run courses if they prefer.

Whatever the issues, I need to find out more if I'm going to be able to help. Talking to Sara will be a problem if she has issues with me, and doing so without Gil's permission would be a breach of trust anyway. I'm definitely going to have to try and persuade him to communicate with me about this first. I know he'll find it difficult because, no matter how well we get to know each other, Gil's a very private person. I can't change that so, with the extra barrier of reticence to overcome, I'll need to do everything I can to help get around his aphasia.

I consider the various possible elements of the problem while I shower and change into comfortable clothes. This will be a very important communication sheet and, even if Gil can't or won't use it with me, he may want to use it with Sara next time she visits. Grabbing a large sheet of paper and a handful of marker pens I head back into the main area where I can use the larger table there. After a few more moments of thought I begin to draw and write.


	5. Greg

**Cottonwood House III**

**The Hand You're Dealt**

Disclaimer: No, CSI: still isn't mine. *sigh*

**Chapter 5**

**Greg**

Always a gentleman I stand when I see the beautiful Sara Sidle, my breakfast date, coming towards my booth in one of our favourite diners.

Well, OK, it isn't a _date_ kind of date, but Sara _is_ beautiful. I always thought so of course, but it's even truer now, escaping from the lab and into the daylight has obviously done her a lot of good.

Seeing Sara at Lindsey's pool party made me realise how little I'd seen of her since she arrived back in Las Vegas; often when I've called she's been on her way out to see Grissom, or she's been working on re-establishing herself in town. Sara has done all the usual settling down stuff like finding work, getting a place to live and, now that she has an apartment, she's busy with renovations. All that is on top of the fact we're now living our lives at opposite ends of the day making it a whole lot harder to meet up, which is why I invited her out for breakfast the first meal of her day and the last of mine. Even so it's taken over a week to pin down an actual day.

"Hey, Sara, you're looking good today!"

"Hey to you too, Greg, I'm feeling pretty good, certainly better than you're looking, has Catherine got you working triples or something?"

Gee, thanks, and after I just paid her a compliment. Still, she's probably right about the way I look right now.

"Catherine's not the one who's responsible for the beaten man you're seeing before you; it's the other Ms Willows."

"Lindsey?"

"Yeah, it was her other birthday party this weekend, remember? She talked me and Riley into being chaperones and while Riley turned up for work the next night fresh as a daisy, I've felt washed out ever since. I think my age is finally catching up with me."

Sara gives me an unsympathetic grin. "Well you have to admit it Greg, it's taken it's time, you're well past twenty-something now, you know?"

It's an old joke; the one about Greg, Peter Pan of the Crime Lab; and doesn't hold as much truth as it used to, since the death of that gang-banger kid and then what happened to Grissom; but I laugh anyway. Sara's sisterly teasing makes the encounter feel almost like old times.

"Yeah, well remind me of that next time I'm tempted to help out with a bunch of teenagers."

Sara looks a little guilty.

"Oh, well I was going to say something this morning about this thing that I'm helping organise for work, but I guess asking you to spend yet another weekend with a bunch of kids is beyond the call of friendship."

Kids? Now I'm confused, "I thought you were working at the animal shelter."

"I was, but the more time I spent there the more I realised it was the wrong choice for me. I loved the animals but the more I saw of what people were doing to them, the more I realised that I was putting myself in the same situations that were so toxic to me in my last months as a CSI. One thing I learned while I was on my travels is that sometimes I have to put myself first. I felt bad letting them down after such a short time but they were very kind. The job I was doing involved recording information about any neglect, illness or injury to new admissions in case the previous owner is prosecuted or tries to sue the charity for wrongly removing their pet, and the management know it's stressful, which is why the job comes with a salary instead of being a voluntary work. It turns out that the probationary period is as much about giving the new recruit an easy 'no harm no foul' exit if they realise they can't cope than it is about whether the shelter likes how they work and they were happy to call it quits with only a week's notice."

"I had already signed up to become a Big Sister at that point and..."

I must have looked pretty surprised to hear that but that's because I am, in fact, _very_ surprised. Sara has often talked to me in the past about her trouble connecting with kids, hoping I might have some advice that would help. The problem is you can't help someone that way, because kids can see right through you and if you're just doing something because someone told you to try it, they'll spot that at once. Anyway, Sara must have realised that I'm confused because she changes tack briefly, trying to explain.

"Gil gave me a 'talk' when I first visited Cottonwood House, and he used the computer to say something that actually started me thinking about whether I want to take on a kid in the future. I thought that taking part in the Big Brother Big Sister programme might be a way of finding out if I can get on with a kid any better than I used to and maybe doing some good at the same time.

"Anyway, I was having an interview as part of the process and I was asked how I'd feel about being a Big Sister to someone who has a parent in prison and I said it might not be a good idea. The woman interviewing me looked disappointed and tried to talk me out of any 'bias' I was feeling. Then I explained that the kid's parents might not be too happy if it turned out that I or one of my friends was responsible for whomever it was being prosecuted in the first place. Her ears pricked up and then, when she found out what I used to do, she was even more interested. It turned out that she was a manager at Big Brothers Big Sisters of Southern Nevada but she was doing my interview because they didn't have enough people qualified to organize vetting and do home checks before the Little Brothers and Sisters are allowed to visit them there. My experience makes me ideal to liaise with the police and I could probably spot more than most people could on a brief home visit. I was offered a job on the spot and I took it up as soon as I'd finished at the animal shelter. I'm still training at the moment but in the meantime I'm helping out at some of the events where they need volunteers.

"So that's what I was going to ask you about. We're in desperate need of more male volunteers to be Big Brothers to the boys who apply and this is going to be a kind of 'find out what it's all about' session where people thinking of volunteering can get to meet existing Bigs along with their Little Brothers or Sisters. We're making it into a picnic and there will be games too so the kids will have some fun at the same time. Nick's coming to find out more because he misses his nephews and nieces back in Texas. Warrick isn't going to be there though; he said something about it not being a Big _Brother _that he has in mind right now, whatever that means_. _Anyway,I was wondering if I could tempt you, just to take a look at what's involved. No pressure though, I'm working up to things gradually myself, I've already learned that kids still don't really relate to me from what I've done so far, so I'm concentrating on the group events until I feel more prepared to go one on one."

Sara offers me a smile that is somehow both rueful and hopeful at the same time. I almost agree immediately just to get the smile to widen enough to show the cute gap between her front teeth; but, much as it may surprise people looking at me from the outside, I'm not quite as spontaneous as I used to be and I'd like to think this one through for a while. Besides, I'm kind of concerned about Sara's sudden swap, if she couldn't cope with working at the shelter, will this new venture be any better for her?

"That sounds cool, Sara, but by taking the new job aren't you just swapping one bunch of negativity for another?"

Sara looks like she's considering my question but surely she must have thought about this before if she really has spent the last couple of years learning to put herself first more often?

"Maybe," she answers, "but I really do want to be able to continue using the skills I learned as a CSI to help people, just in a different way. I agree that some of the kids have had a tough time, but the organisation is about giving kids good role models who are interested in them. It isn't about what's been done to them in the past; it's more about preventing problems in the future.

"Besides, at the shelter I was dealing with cases where the abuse had already happened and sometimes the people responsible for it. This time I'm mostly going to be working with good people who want to help and if someone does come along with the wrong motives I'm the ideal person to filter them out. For once I'm going to get to do preventative work instead of only arriving after all the damage has been done. That has to be better for me, hasn't it Greg?"

I grin, "Yes, put that way it sounds like this job is made for you and I bet you'll be great at it. As for being a Big Brother, are you really saying you think I'd be a good role model?" I give a boyish grin to make it look like I'm half joking, but it is kind of neat that Sara thought of me for something like this.

Sara grins back, but her brown eyes are serious.

"Yes, Greg, I think you'd be wonderful."

I'm pretty sure I'm blushing, but I can't let that influence what I decide, I proper role model has to consider things carefully, doesn't he?

"Actually Sara, is it OK if I think about it and maybe come to the next event like this one? This weekend really not good for me and I want to think about how I can balance the other things I do. I'm sure a kid would like to come along and do some of the fun stuff with me..."

Sara cuts me off there, she really is into her new 'mission'; I guess some things about Sara will never change.

"That's exactly how we encourage potential Big Brothers to see it. Taking part in the program isn't about finding extra time to spend with your Little Brother, most of these kids would be glad just to hang out and share a pizza or maybe play or watch sport with you."

Thank you! The waitress arrives and interrupts us before Sara puts me in an arm lock. She takes our drinks order and drops off a couple of menus.

"Hey," I say, once the waitress is too far away to overhear and raising my hands in mock surrender, "I thought you said this was a no pressure deal! There are actually a few things that I do that aren't completely childish or even child friendly you know? Some of them are even things I've taken on a commitment to do. On top of that you know that there will be times when work will spread and take over my whole life for a few days, and I want to be sure that if it ever means cancelling an arrangement I can make up for it as fast as possible, I don't want some kid feeling let down or rejected because of something I've done."

I pause there to gather my thoughts a moment. I know it's not the same, but as an only child with overprotective parents I didn't get to do much and really looked forward to it when Papa Olaf or some other acceptable adult offered to take me out and maybe do something a little more adventurous than my Mom would have wanted. I remember the frustration when those trips ended up cancelled because something unavoidable came up and I don't want to cause that in someone else. Besides there's another reason my free time is precious.

"Sara, I promise I'll consider the suggestion carefully, but one thing that isn't negotiable is the amount of time I spend with Grissom."

Almost while I'm still saying the name the atmosphere changes, the light of enthusiasm about her new job fades from Sara's face and with it the sunshine that was filling the diner seems to fade too, even though it's still as bright outside as it was a moment ago. Even the waitress seems to notice that something's different. Sara manages to place an order, but she still looks upset when the waitress leaves us again. I reach across the table and touch my friend's hand.

"It's OK, Sara, Grissom's doing great."

"Is he?"

I nod emphatically.

"Yes, he is. Sara, I do have some idea what you're going through. It's horrible when you first realise that someone as amazing as Gil Grissom will never be the same again. However much you tell yourself that it's selfish to feel that way, right now it feels like your loss as much as his, doesn't it?"

Sara nods and, after seeing her face, I quickly move around so that I'm sitting beside her in the booth instead of across. I take both Sara's hands in mine.

"Look, I know that what you and he are to each other is something completely different, but you know that Grissom was always a hero to me. When I was taking my turn sitting with him while he was unconscious I thought that I'd lost that, but spending time with him now makes me realise that he's still a hero, just one of a different kind."

Sara looks at me, her eyes watery and red.

"Did you spend much time sitting with him?"

"As much as I was allowed," I smile gently, trying to cheer Sara up a little, "we all wanted to, but the ICU wouldn't let us all clutter the place up and we knew Griss would be mad if he thought Graveyard's solve rate had gone down because we were clustered around his bedside. In the end Catherine drew up a rota that meant there was always someone with Griss while the rest of us worked or rested. She was pretty tough at enforcing it too – even Jim Brass had to keep to the schedule."

Sara's watery smile reflects mine.

"And did the clearance rate stay up?"

"Of course not, we'd lost our biggest gun hadn't we? But we probably did better than if Cath hadn't been so organised. I think it worked out fine, we all wanted to sit with Griss but the rests in between did us good, especially once Grissom woke up enough to get bored if we didn't find some way to amuse him because there was nothing he could do for himself."

Damn, I hoped I was making Sara feel better, but now she's actually begun to cry. Using one hand to offer her some paper napkins from the table dispenser, I wrap my other arm around her shoulders. I'm beginning to wonder if Sara has really talked about this with any one since she got back to Vegas and found out what happened to her boyfriend.

I spot the waitress looking at us like we're lowering the tone or something, but I do want to get Sara to eat something because I know she can forget to look after herself when she's upset. I signal to the woman that we'd like to make the food order 'to go' and then return my attention to Sara.

"You guys shouldn't have had to do all that, I was his fiancée, and I should have been there for him."

_Fiancée?_ She _was_ his fiancée? That implies a whole lot of stuff I don't have a clue about, but that stuff's not for now. I understand that Sara feels guilty, because I don't think there was a single one of us that didn't manage to come up with some reason why it should have been him or her testifying in court that day and that he or she should have taken the beating, not Grissom. The past can't be changed though, and we have to take a leaf from Griss' own book and replace the 'what ifs' with what is.

"Hey Sara, it's OK. Do you really think that we wouldn't have done just the same things if you had been there? You left to do what you needed to do and I bet the others were just like me in deciding that we'd take care of the Big Guy on your behalf. The job got a whole lot bigger than expected, but that was because of what those SOBs did to him and nobody could have known that would happen. At a crime scene in an alley after dark you take precautions, right? But you don't think anything will happen in broad daylight in a public place with so many police and other guards around. You really can't blame yourself for what happened or not being around when it did.

"And, now that you are back, don't think you can swoop in and have the monopoly on Grissom. I really enjoy my time with him and I'm as sure as it's possible to be that Griss enjoys it too. That's why I don't want that to change, not because I feel some kind of obligation. You hear me?"

Sara nods, but she still seems unsure so I explain to her how I call Lucy before I visit Griss and find out what skills he's working on or what's frustrating him most and then try and think of a fun way of working on that stuff. After a while of that we leave it and just have fun; maybe just watching baseball (I cheer whichever team Griss isn't supporting), going out into the grounds for a while or maybe fooling around with my Wii. I play left handed when we do that and pick games you don't have to stand up for, but I don't mention those details to Sara; I'm trying to get her to focus on what Gil is managing to do as much as possible. After I finish Sara seems a bit more like herself, but still takes a few moments to compose herself before speaking again in a quiet voice.

"Tell me about what it was like to be there when it first happened please, Greg? I need to know."

I wonder about Sara's reason for asking that question. Does she really need to know, or is hearing it in detail some kind of penance for not being there?

"Are you sure?" I ask, "It's in the past and Griss and the rest of us all cope better by concentrating on the here and now. Those few weeks are a memory most of us care to revisit, you don't need that stuff in your head."

"I do Greg, because I wasn't there and, unless David Hodges turns out to be even more of a genius than he thinks he is and suddenly invents a time machine, I never can be."

"I really don't want..."

"Greg, everyone tells me that if I'd only seen what Gil was like back when he was still in Desert Palm I'd realise how far he's come. So tell me.

"If you don't want to start with the immediate aftermath of what happened then start later. I know Catherine was the one who was there when he came out of the coma, so you can't tell me what that was like, but maybe you could begin with the first time you saw him afterwards?"

Maybe I've spent too much time with Grissom recently because I find myself pinching the bridge of my nose while I prepare to continue.

"OK, if you're positive Sara. First of all, it's true that Cath was the one of us who was there when Griss woke up the very first time, but that doesn't mean she was the only one of us to have the experience. When someone comes out of a coma it's nothing like how they show it in the movies, it wasn't like Grissom was unconscious one minute and wide awake the next, his eyes would open for a few minutes and then they'd drift shut again, for several days the only way we knew what was happening with him was by checking the EEG that was constantly monitoring his condition. The nurses showed us how to spot if he was awake, asleep or more deeply unconscious just by looking at that. If it hadn't been for the circs it would have been kind of cool."

I glance at Sara. OK, she doesn't want to hear about cool right now, so I won't tell her how Griss looked like some kind of alien, with his head and beard shaved, bandages holding his jaw still and affecting the shape of his face and a set of EEG pads attached all over his skull. Weirdest of all to look at was the probe thingy that was poking out of his head, the other end of which went right into his skull to measure things like pressure and oxygenation levels. I think even I was relieved when that was removed.

"But back then it wasn't cool at all, in fact we were using the machine to try and work out when Griss was about to wake up properly, because when he did he'd be so confused he'd panic and all we could do was talk to him and maybe touch his face until he calmed down or just fell asleep again. I'm not sure he even knew who we were right then; it didn't seem to make much difference if it was one of us or a nurse who was talking to him. Of course, there was none of the hand squeezing stuff you see in the movies either."

"He was paralysed?" It's as much a statement as a question but I nod in confirmation.

"How long did that last?"

I think for a minute, it seems that putting the past behind you can lead to forgetfulness. Sara looks at me, questioningly.

"Sorry, Sara, but it's hard to put a specific time to it, like the coma, it wasn't as if Griss was paralysed one day and not the next. Apparently the problem was mostly caused by the fact Griss' brain ricocheted around his skull, so large parts of the surface were bruised or swollen. It was only as that went down and the neurons started to recover that Grissom gradually began to feel and move again. Even when he was ready to leave the hospital and move to Cottonwood House the bits of his brain that were most bumped around, near the point of injury, still weren't back to normal. Add in all the muscle tone he lost while bedridden and he was still pretty immobile."

I pause, now I'm talking about it more memories are coming back. I'm tempted to edit for Sara's sake, but if I'm trying to make her realise how much progress there's been she needs to know at least some of it.

"I suppose the complete lack of feeling lasted about ten days. Towards the end of that it was suggested that Griss might like to go outside. The hospital has this neat thing where they've fixed outdoor power points around a small rose garden so, as long as they can be moved and don't need a whole ton of equipment, long stay patients can be taken outside in wheelchairs or even their beds and any monitors or other equipment can be reconnected to the supply out there.

"I was there when they took him out and I think Griss thought it was OK, I even caught a few bugs to bring over for him to look at. He was in this wheelchair with a high back so he could be strapped into a sitting position and I remember him closing his eyes tightly whenever it was moving. It only occurred to me afterwards that he must have felt like a disembodied head just floating along above the ground and he was shutting the feeling out by closing his eyes."

I stop there because I don't want to give Sara more detail than she asks for. However it seems she isn't finished yet.

"What about Gil's speech? When did you know that was gone?"

"Sara, that's the third question in a row that I can't give you a specific answer to."

Sara looks contrite and maybe a little disappointed. I give her a gentle nudge.

"OK, I'll do my best to answer that, but when I'm done I get to ask you something, OK?"

"OK." Sara's answer is positive but wary.

"Well, we were still at the stage when every doctor's comments started with 'assuming Mr. Grissom emerges from his coma' when we were told that Griss would probably have a pretty severe language problem. They could tell that because they could see exactly which part of his brain had been affected by sharp force trauma from the injury itself and also the surgery afterwards. They still couldn't tell us exactly how it would affect Grissom though, apparently most of us have a similar geography inside our heads but we're all wired up slightly differently so no-one reacts to a brain injury quite the same as another person would. It was a while after Griss woke up before they could assess him properly because apparently it's not unusual for someone freshly out of coma to have speech problems, plus the side effects of the reconstruction he'd had done to his jaw would have got in the way of him speaking anyway. At first the speech specialist seemed hopeful that things might not be as bad as expected, he was impressed that Grissom was able to reliably use blinks for 'yes' and 'no' from really early on but it turned out he was wrong. I remember that Griss was completely miserable for a couple of days after they finally did the assessment. I think it might have been the first time he did so badly at something he really wanted to do well.

"So, that was pretty much when Grissom hit rock bottom. Since then it' been all uphill from there; and I do mean uphill, Griss has fought for every step. So, however damaged he seems to you now, please don't devalue everything he's worked to achieve."

Sara shakes her head but I can see she's still doubtful. Well, I wasn't expecting this conversation to have her jumping for joy; I just want her to have the chance to start seeing things in a different light.

The waitress has arrived now with our food boxed and bagged. I give her more than enough to cover the check and tell her to keep the change as her tip. I get Sara settled in the passenger seat of my car and walk around to the driver's side.

"Your place or mine?" I can't resist the clichéd question. "I'll sort out fetching your car later."

Sara really isn't doing too good, it's not like her just to accept my decision that she isn't up to driving anywhere right now and now she's even giving me the choice of where to go. I pick her place, so she can relax without worrying about getting home afterwards.

I don't want her to spend the journey brooding so, as we pull out of the parking lot, I remind her; "I believe it's my turn to ask you something now."


	6. Sara

**Cottonwood House III**

**The Hand You're Dealt**

Disclaimer: No, CSI: still isn't mine, and nor are any of the TV shows, books or films mentioned in this chapter. *sigh* However, there are also references to events in the two previous _Cottonwood House_ stories, and those really are mine. :D

**A/N **I hope that this chapter doesn't feel too rushed and unpolished but I've made you all wait for it long enough because I lost a lot of writing time last week due to illness and RL is such that if I don't post today it will probably be Tuesday before I have the chance again. While I'm writing an author's note I'd also like to take the opportunity to point out that I have no medical training or experience. Although I've done my best to research these stories properly I make no claims to the accuracy of anything I write. I don't have a Beta reader and all mistakes, medical or otherwise are entirely my own.

**Chapter 6**

**Sara**

"I believe it's my turn to ask you something now."

Greg's reminder startles me out of my thoughts and suddenly I remember something else, something a little more urgent.

"Turn the car around."

"Hey, there's no need to panic, you don't even know what I'm going to ask yet." Greg laughs and carries on driving.

"It's not that, it's just that, between me getting over emotional and the old routine of having breakfast together, we both forgot one big thing."

"We did?"

"Uh-huh," I reply, starting to grin at the level of absent mindedness that can be achieved when two geeks get together. "I don't work nights any more. You may be finished for the day, but I haven't even begun work yet and I'm going to need my car to get there."

"O-kay," Greg replies slowly, clearly going through the options in his mind while looking for a suitable turning to get us back to the diner, "there's a park a couple of blocks from here and it's a nice morning, how about we have a breakfast picnic there? The food should still be warm enough to be edible without reheating. Then, once we're done, I can easily drop you back at your car before I head home. Will that do?"

"Suits me." I nod, now I've opened the floodgates and begun to hear about what happened to Gil while I was away, I don't want to slam them shut again, but I can't afford to take today off work either.

Greg makes a turn and heads for the park. After a few moments of silence I ask him what his question was, even though I'll probably regret it.

"Doesn't matter."

Huh, like I believe that. The turbulence of my emotions caused by talking about Grissom's situation is quelled by the new annoyance at being 'protected'.

"Come on Greg, clearly it mattered two minutes ago, nothing's changed since."

"Yes it has. I was taking you home because you got upset in the diner and if talking about Grissom's going to do that you need to be able to take time to relax and get your head together afterwards." He pauses briefly as he smoothly guides the car into a handy parking space. One thing about driving those big CSI vehicles for work is that manoeuvring a normal sized car becomes incredibly simple in comparison.

"How long have we got anyway?"

I smile, it's not as bad as Greg probably thinks, I knew that whatever Greg and I talked about we'd probably get carried away and that's why I held off until today to meet him.

"No need to panic too much, I'm training, remember. This morning I have a lecture at the university and it doesn't start until ten-thirty. We've plenty of time, just not enough to get to my place, clear enough space amongst the builder's debris to eat, have our food and then come back for my car in time for me to drive over there. Your place is nearer and probably tidier, but this is even better. It means we've a couple of hours if we want, so if we keep the tough stuff to the first hour and then maybe go back to our normal brand of nonsense I'll have time to get myself back together. Even if I'm not a hundred percent when I leave here, after the first hour of sitting in a darkened lecture theatre I will be."

"OK," Greg agrees as we step out of the car, "one hour, but if I think even that's too much, we change the subject."

"Let me be the judge of that, Greg, and don't give me any easy answers either, you don't need to protect me."

"Yes I do," Greg looks at me with his soulful brown eyes, "I've always cared about you, you know that. Besides," his mouth splits into a grin, "I don't want Grissom finding out I've been upsetting you, he might not be able to reduce me to a quivering wreck with just his words anymore, but have you any idea how much it hurts to have a hundred seventy-five pound man in an electric wheelchair deliberately run over your foot?"

I can't help laughing at that, even if it's a stark reminder of Gil's new situation. It seems that Greg's irreverent sense of humour hasn't changed.

We find a suitable picnic bench and begin to spread our food out. While we're doing so Greg finally puts his question.

"So, you and Grissom were engaged..?"

Damn, I let that slip out unprotected. I should have realised that Gil never told them, not surprising really, considering I left before he even got to buy me a ring.

I must look stricken, because Greg backs off immediately.

"Look, Sara, I'm not expecting you to give me all the details, the two of you kept things so dark that, even though I know the two of you have been an item for a while, it still feels weird hearing you refer to him as Gil. Of course I would be interested if you _wanted_ to tell me the whole story but I'm guessing you don't. Maybe some other time though?" He casts me a comically hopeful look but clearly doesn't expect an answer. "The thing that interests me most right now is that you said you _were_ Grissom's fiancée at the time when he was attacked. Now, maybe I've spent too much time with a bunch of detectives, but that tells me that you're not engaged now and since, as far as I know, the first time you spoke to Griss after it happened was when you came back a few weeks ago, the engagement must have been called off between then and now."

"Yes." I reply then and, after what I hope is a comic pause, I add, "You are spending way too much time with detectives." I know my expression doesn't quite match the levity of my reply though and Greg just stares at me, he knows an evasion tactic when he sees it. Reaching out Greg touches my hand just like he did in the diner.

"Come on Sara. Look, I really care about both you guys, I'm not going to take sides or even say if I think the decision was right or not, that's not for me to have an opinion on, but I'd kind of like to know if this was a mutual choice, something you both think is right, or if it's something that one of you is having trouble dealing with. My shoulders may not be as broad as Nick's but they're pretty good for crying on, I just need to know if one or both of you need my services and, with Grissom the way he is now, it's easiest if I can get that information from you."

I nod, Greg's argument is reasonable.

"It's hard to say. You could say that I called it off by simply disappearing for a couple of years within weeks of saying 'yes'. At some point Gil must have lost faith that I'd ever be back. It was him that actually put it into words though, well, using his voice synthesizer he did. I can't blame him, real couples support each other and not only wouldn't I let him support me, when he needed my support I wasn't there, I wasn't even contactable."

Greg's shaking his head. "Did Grissom actually say he felt let down? Sure he was upset when you left, he loved you. He got pretty crotchety with anyone who asked how you were doing, but he never seemed angry with you or the situation just, well, resigned. In fact I got quite mad at him because I saw him as the cause of your leaving and yet he didn't seem to be bothered about doing anything to get you back."

"He was just respecting my wishes Greg."

"I know, I understand that now, I just didn't at the time, I thought it was Grissom coming over all Mr. Spock again. Speaking of which, the Big Guy is nothing if not logical, if you weren't contactable then it wouldn't occur to him to blame you for not rushing back to be here after an attack you never heard about. OK, so that said, was he able to use his machine to say why he didn't want to continue being engaged to you? Do you remember?"

Yes, I remember, I think my first encounter with Gil's new voice will be stuck in my head forever.

"No, he said it was because he thought we might both have changed too much; that we needed to start from scratch again, but I don't know if that was just him being nice, making it about both of us, and just coming up with an excuse to make things easier. I mean, how much has he really changed?"

Greg looks thoughtful, as though he's trying to think of a way to explain something difficult.

"Sara, while you were travelling, did you ever describe Grissom to someone? I don't mean his physical appearance, I mean telling someone what he's like as a person."

I nod in reply; of course I did, although at first it was only if someone asked directly. When I began to do it because _I _wanted people to know about my wonderful man was one of the signs which told me I was ready to come home.

"So, when you did, did you tell the person you were talking to about the guy who loves to be hugged, who laughs and cries easily and has a giant lady bug cushion he sometimes cuddles while watching TV? Perhaps you told them how he always grabs the funnies first when he gets a newspaper and likes watching _Scooby Doo _marathons on the Cartoon Network? Or maybe you explained that sometimes he loses his temper quite spectacularly or that he often deals with his frustrations by throwing things?"

I shake my head sadly, not just because of the changes Greg's talking about, which make the man I knew sound a bit like an overgrown kid, but also because my friend is revealing how much more he knows about Gil as he is now than I do, the kind of things that used to be our little secrets, because we were the only ones who knew what we were like off duty, at home. It makes me want to fight back, try and reclaim some of my territory and I can see there's a flaw here.

"Hold on a minute Greg, you're confusing me. So far nearly everyone's telling me that Gil's intellect is unaffected, and now you're making him sound like he's ten years old again." As I say the words I get a sudden feeling of dread, I've already missed seeing a lot about Gil's condition because I didn't want to acknowledge the changes, could I have missed something as big as this, I ask myself? Everything he's communicated to me so far has indicated his usual maturity, but has it only come out that way because it's been filtered through Lucy, his speech computer or even my own choice of which questions to ask him? I let the half-eaten cream cheese bagel I'm holding fall to the table, my appetite suddenly gone.

Greg is at my side immediately.

"Sara, Sara? I'm sorry; I didn't mean to upset you like this. Listen, I wasn't inventing anything I just said, but I was picking out the biggest changes, the stuff that is most different from how he was before and somehow It may have come out like he's regressed or something, but that's only the tiniest part of it.

"OK, about that ladybug, well that seems to be an extension of the whole hugging thing, Griss just finds it comforting to have his arms round something, and it just happens to be a giant ladybug instead of a regular pillow or cushion. The only thing that's annoying is that he had to go and pick on something Hodges bought for him as a get well gift. As for the other stuff, well it's a relaxation thing, Grissom has to concentrate so hard on most stuff that the comics and cartoons are a nice change, but that doesn't mean that he never gets around to reading the news pages or that he doesn't spend plenty of time watching stuff on the various Discovery or NatGeo channels. Movies tend to be too complicated for him to keep up with easily though and that's why _Scooby Doo_ works, because it really doesn't matter if he loses track halfway through, but he also likes watching some old _Sherlock Holmes_ DVDs he's got where they've adapted it really well and stuck close to the original stories, which he knows pretty much by heart, making it a lot simpler for him to keep up.

"As for throwing things, well he did that before he got hurt, you must remember him buying us a new coffee pot for the break room after the old one took a hit that time Griss rowed with Ecklie. It's just that before it took a whole lot more to make him lose control like that. Lucy's helping him learn how to deal with his temper a bit better now though – he's stopped actually aiming at people for a start!"

Smiling after that last comment, Greg stands up from where he's been hunkered down trying to reassure me, but still keeps eye contact and a firm hold on my hand.

"I know I keep saying this, Sara, but these changes, they're nothing really, not compared with how it could have turned out. We were told that, for someone who'd suffered as much damage as Grissom, waking from a coma can be almost like being born again and that wasn't just about having physical stuff to relearn. Sara, we were warned that the guy waking up from the coma might be nothing like the Gil Grissom we knew before, that that person could have been gone forever.

"Yes, there have been changes, but we've been lucky, he's still recognisably Grissom and some of the changes I've noticed seem to be almost for the good. Sure he gets frustrated when he can't do stuff, but in other ways he seems more relaxed about life. In fact, thinking about it, in some ways he's actually more like he was when I first arrived at the lab. You won't remember but Griss was a whole different person before you came to Las Vegas – not that it was you that changed him – no I mean it was Holly dying and having all the extra responsibility thrown at him when Captain Brass went back to homicide. His sense of humour changed to something much darker almost overnight, when he allowed himself to show it at all, and it was dry as a bone too at times. Now it's gone back the other way, sometimes there's a glint in his eye that's almost mischievous and, as a silent comedian, there are times he could give Chaplin a run for his money." Greg smiles affectionately at this and internally I do too, because Greg doesn't realise that I actually do remember what Gil was like before Holly Gribbs' murder, and that was when I first became attracted to him.

"I know he and I get on better," Greg continues, "although I couldn't say if that counts as a personality change or if it's just that he's relieved not to be my boss anymore.

"Maybe that's it," Greg shrugs, "maybe being forced to stop working was good for him, even if the cause wasn't. You've seen for yourself that he's just not as uptight about stuff as he used to be. Would the old Grissom have been so quick to join us in the pool the other day, or have been so blatant about letting you girls win the game we played?"

I pretend to be offended at the idea that our team needed help to win but inside I have to acknowledge that, after years of me encouraging him to loosen up a little, Gil has done just that.

"Don't get me wrong, Sara; I'm also glad that sometimes when I turn up at his apartment it almost feels like the old days. I'll look in through the glass door and he'll be sitting there listening to music with his head stuck in a book like he's forgotten the rest of the world exists and it takes me back to when I used to go to his office with a report. OK, so the music's more likely to be Classic Rock than Classical these days, I think he misses the stereo effect more with the orchestral stuff; and his book will be on a stand to hold it open, but you don't get more typically Grissom than a moment like that.

"The things that I love about Gil Grissom are still there and I'm sure you'll find that plenty of the stuff you loved about him is still there too, if you're prepared look hard enough."

"Yeah, I'm sure they are." I remember the feeling of coming home I got when Gil took me in his arms again, having that happen more often has got to be good. Our date at the restaurant was good too, up until the point when the idiot boys' chorus started; having Gil's total attention while I talked and we both ate was wonderful, even if the old give and take of our conversations was sadly missing.

"I miss the sound of his voice," I find myself admitting.

"I'm sure you do," Greg is sympathetic, "Warrick and Archie both spent ages tweaking the software on Griss' computer to sound more like him but even with 'Rick's ear for sound and Archie's technical talents it was never going to be the same as hearing the real thing."

We both fall silent for a little while, contemplating the things we've been discussing. I take a sip of coffee. It's a good job that having been a CSI has taught me to like the stuff when it's lukewarm.

So far I've only told Greg one of the reasons why Gil thought we shouldn't be engaged anymore. There's no way I'm going to go into the stuff about not having kids and, besides, I think the one thing we've established is that Gil and I are on similar wavelengths when it comes to that issue. Something else that was said has confused me though, and Greg is as good a person to talk about it with as anyone.

"Gil says his apartment at Cottonwood House is his home now and that he doesn't see himself leaving; but surely as he continues to improve he'll reach a point where being away from there would be a good thing?"

"Only Griss has the real answer to that Sara, you need to discuss it with him."

"How am I supposed to do that?"

I didn't intend to ask that question out loud, but I must have done because Greg replies.

"You love him," he says simply and without doubt, "you'll find a way."

"Do you know how long it took for me to figure out that when he just stares at me and blinks he's actually saying 'yes' or 'no'?"

"Actually when he does that he isn't just answering a question, he's also saying something like, 'I'm too tired and emotional to make any more effort than this' or even, 'I have a terrible headache and I don't want to move my head too much right now.'"

I really am bad at this, most of that hadn't even occurred to me and yet, thinking back to when he has used the blinking code, it does make sense.

"Lucy will help you work some of this stuff out; you only have to ask her. Griss has to make such a huge effort anytime he wants to communicate and the least his friends can do is meet him halfway."

Actually Lucy did offer to help like that the first time I met her, but since then she's kept her distance whenever I've visited Gil and I haven't wanted to seek her out, it just feels wrong to need to ask another woman how I should talk to the man I love. Now I let my head drop a little, ashamed that I've been so caught up in my own shock and grief at what I discovered when I came back to Vegas that I've been unable to see things as clearly as Greg obviously does.

"Like I said," Greg goes on, "for Grissom's reasons you'll have to go to Grissom, all I can do is to try and give you the facts. Cottonwood House offers six and twelve month intensive therapy courses for those who have recently suffered a traumatic brain injury. Griss originally went there for the twelve month one because of the level of his injury and because it's generally in the first year that most progress gets made. By the end of that year Grissom was able to look at his options with a fair idea of the level of handicap he's going to be dealing with in future and for whatever reasons he thought were right, he decided he wanted to move into one of their long term supported living units, where he'd have easy access to continuing all his different therapies."

"But surely that's not just it? You read in the papers about people who make sudden improvements, even ones who've been comatose for years. Gil can't have written himself off already, surely?"

"Of course not, would he still be working so hard if he had? But there's a reason those stories of sudden great improvements make it into the news and why the headlines that go with them usually contain the words 'miracle' or 'against the odds'. The brain may be a weird and wonderful thing, Sara, and Grissom's doubly so, but he's made no great leaps in over a year now. I'm sure Griss will reassess the situation if things change, but he's not gambling on that happening and, even if this is Las Vegas, Sara, neither should you."

"But if Gil isn't likely to make progress, why is he doing so much therapy?"

"No-one said he can't make some progress, they just said it's _unlikely_ there'll be any great leaps. There're two reasons for keeping up the therapy, firstly it's to make sure he doesn't lose what he's gained, you know 'use it or lose it'? The second is that, if his brain is going to reprogram itself, then the best way to encourage it is to keep trying to do stuff and keep repeating things over and over. Griss is constantly improving Sara, even if the rate's slowed down a lot it'll never stop as long as he's getting the right support and input. All the same, I think Grissom's probably being realistic in assuming that he won't reach a point when he doesn't need the support at all."

"But surely other people in similar circumstances manage outside of these units."

"Of course, but no two people's circumstances are identical are they? I'm sure Griss' decision was influenced by all sorts of things, including his lack of family. I'm sure he was fully aware of his prognosis and all his possible options at the time. If you want to persuade him that you have other options to offer then it's not me you should be talking to, is it?"

I open my mouth to try and continue my line of questioning but Greg interrupts me.

"Look, wouldn't it be better if you asked Lucy some of these questions? She'd be far better at answering them than me. She'll also help you find better ways to communicate with Grissom, and that's important Sara, if you want any kind of relationship with him at all you'll have to make that effort, you can't afford to just wait for him to make some sudden surge of improvement that may never come at all. Please, Sara, take some time to talk with Lucy."

I close my eyes in frustration. It's not just the situation though, some of it is disappointment with myself for once again being selfish enough to assume that Gil will get better just because _I_ want him to or that just because I'm back he no longer has any reasons to stay where he is. There's something else bugging me too. I don't know if I'm projecting my other concerns and annoyances onto her, feeling guilty that she's doing a lot of the things that I feel I should have been here to do for Gil, or if it's just plain, old fashioned, jealousy, but I know I'm fed up of constantly hearing about Gil's caretaker. She's just so constantly present; even just talking about Gil to Greg seems to involve her more than I care to think about. I know she's been pretty essential at times, but wouldn't it be better if he tried to manage without her more often now? Or maybe neither of them wants that? Knowing that it's more my problem than hers and that Gil would be disappointed that I'm even having such thoughts I try and tread carefully.

"Gil really likes Lucy, doesn't he?"

"Yeah, he does, and that's really good, can you imagine what it would be like for him to spend so much time with someone he didn't respect and get along with? You know, thinking about it, I figure Griss gets on best with women who challenge him, like you and Catherine and La..."

Greg pauses, but I just raise an eyebrow.

"...dy Heather and now Lucy. I think he might be kind of shy around women and having a challenge to cope with makes him forget that a bit, or something, I don't know. Anyway, Lucy seems to have got a real handle on just how far she can push him and then when to put on the brakes and let him take his time or even stop him when he's trying to push himself too hard."

Great, something that took me ages to learn and that I never got quite right and yet here's Lucy again, already an expert Grissom wrangler.

I need to stop thinking like this, perhaps Lucy just has better general instincts than I do, let's face it, I'm not the best people reader in the world. At least Greg's hesitation over mentioning Heather Kessler is amusing. It really is funny to me how people seem to see Gil as some kind of secret Lothario, when he couldn't even figure out how to seduce _me_ in spite of all the hints I was dropping. As for the idea that Heather might have seduced him, well I know from personal experience that the normal techniques just go straight over the top of Gil's head. I once commented to him on how many women try and flirt with him and his response was "Do they?" The one time he actually remembered it happening was when a large lady pinched his backside and apparently she thought he was gay! It was that obliviousness that helped me realise I had no reason to worry about Heather, Gil hadn't mentioned his friendship with her to me for the same reason he hadn't told me the names of all his fellow cockroach racing enthusiasts, it just didn't occur to him that I'd have any reason for concern. That innocence proved his innocence, so to speak, Heather was just a friend of his and when Grissom's friends need help he's there for them because underneath he's a good, caring, person even if he hasn't always managed to express that the right way.

As I think about all this I realise that, if that reasoning works for Gil's friendship with Heather Kessler, then it almost certainly applies to Lucy too. OK, Gil would probably be more vulnerable than he used to be if a manipulative woman decided she wanted him right now but that doesn't mean I should make assumptions about Lucy's motives without doing what Greg suggests and talking to her. Just because I find it hard to believe that she could get that close to Gil without falling for him doesn't mean that it has to be true, it's just that I keep remembering the way she called him a "real sweetheart" and seeing the way she comforted him after I so stupidly rejected his request for a "'ug".

Greg checks his watch while he waits for me to speak again and that makes me glance at mine, so now we're both aware that it's approaching my self-imposed time limit when we'll drop these sensitive subjects. I should be thinking of something to ask Greg in the remaining time, something that he won't just tell me to refer to Lucy or Gil, but right now I'm still reviewing that first 'conversation' back in the grounds of Cottonwood House and thinking about the implications of Gil's suggestion that we might find we're better off just being friends.

Gil once told me that "...sex without love is pointless. It makes you sad." When I asked him more about what he'd said later he told me that there had been times in his life when he'd gone years without intercourse and it simply hadn't bothered him and that, although he enjoyed making love to me, if I wasn't there, it wouldn't be the sex he missed. I puzzled over that for a while until, by coincidence, Jim Brass handed me a book of scientists' biographies that he wanted to return to Gil. I found myself dipping into it in spare moments during the rest of that swing shift and it set me thinking. I began to realise that, in another time and place, Gil would probably have been perfectly happy to live the life of a scientist monk like Gregor Mendel and his pea plants or Marin Mersenne who brought together so many mathematicians through his correspondence; content to spend his days contemplating natural science or mathematics within the ordered, cloistered life of a monastery.

OK, so maybe it's a little weird to imagine him as 'Brother Gilbert', but it suited him so well that it became an affectionate nickname. All the same I can vouch for the fact that he hadn't risen entirely beyond the temptations of the flesh and when I just called him Gilbert without the 'Brother' bit it was a signal that I had something distinctly impure in mind. All the same, it did take us a long time to arrive at that level of intimacy even after we started spending nights in the same bed. It did work out for us in the end though and it also had the advantage of letting me know for certain that there's no way he'd sleep with another woman on a whim or even after a "whirlwind romance". I doubt Gil would have the stomach for an affair and, even if he did, I doubt the other woman would have the patience to invest so much in only a part share and Gil would be completely incapable of the kind of guile required to try and convince her that he would eventually be hers alone.

Coming back to the present situation, when it comes to being 'just good friends' then without a doubt there was a time when, if he thought it was the right thing, Gil Grissom was capable of doing just that, if someone like me hadn't kept prodding him all the time. Now the question is if he can still do that after all the changes Greg has told me about? On the other hand I was never that kind of person, which is why I kept at Gil until he finally gave in to my advances, so the question I really have to ask myself is, if this is what Gil really needs, have I grown into the kind of woman who could cope with that now? If I can't deal with what is almost certainly an unfounded jealousy of Lucy better than this then the answer might well be no. I take a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, this all seems to be getting more complicated over time when surely it should be the opposite way.

"So seen any good movies lately?

Greg is, very unsubtly, trying to change the subject, just as we agreed we would. For a minute I'm tempted to reply say I saw Robin Williams in _Awakenings_, but I do need to stick to what I said and get myself in the right frame of mind for my lecture on working with disadvantaged children, so instead I grin and start to talk about the movie I really did watch on TV last night. I won't be watching much tonight though, I've realised this morning just how much I need to do if I'm not going to end up doing Gil more harm than good in the future.


	7. Jim

**A/N** First let me say how pleased and proud I am that this story, together with its predecessors, _Cottonwood House_ and _Lost For Words_ have been nominated together in the series category of the "_CSI FanFic Awards 2010__**"**_. For more details, the full nominations list, and how to vote, do a search for the words I just put in quotation marks.

Secondly I want to say that I am going to put a real effort into getting what will be the final two chapters of this story up in a reasonable time. Unfortunately I can't do much about my very poorly hamster or my own health issues, but I am going to juggle my studying commitments and try and free up more time that way. The lengths of the chapters in this story make a weekly posting deadline hard to meet, but I will try not to go more than two weeks in future.

Finally, please read, enjoy and then leave me some comments.

**Cottonwood House III**

**The Hand You're Dealt**

Disclaimer: No, CSI: still isn't mine. *sigh*

**Chapter 7**

**Jim**

When I arrive at Gil's small apartment in the grounds of Cottonwood House I find the large glass sliding door which leads straight into the living area wide open, but there's no sign of either of the inhabitants. Fighting the urge to 'proceed with caution', I remind myself that one of the reasons I liked this place when Catherine and I came to check it out was the unobtrusive but effective security arrangements, and walk inside, calling out to ask if anyone's home.

Of course I'm not actually expecting to hear Gil call out in response, but I'm also not expecting the rhythmic thud, thud sound I hear coming from his bedroom instead of the whirr of his wheelchair's motor. As I turn in the direction of the sound, the powered door slides back and Gil comes through. Too my surprise he's on his feet and shuffle stomping along with the aid of a walking frame. He gives me a broad grin as a greeting.

"So, does Lucy know you've gotten hold of that thing again?"

I get a tooth filled smile in reply; my friend is looking distinctly smug.

"Yes, I do," says a female voice to my right, where the door into Lucy's private domain is. "Gil's physical therapist seems to think that it's a good idea to try the frame again now that Gil's legs are stronger. I'm less sure, but Gil always has the casting vote so I'm outnumbered. All the same it's strictly for indoors and short distances for the time being."

"You're not keen on Gil using the frame?"

Lucy drops her pseudo-stern attitude and smiles, although there's a slightly resigned air about her.

"I think it'll be fine, at least around the apartment, as long as Mr. Forgetful here remembers that he needs to hold on properly _all_ the time."

Gil tries to look innocent, but I notice him surreptitiously place his left hand back on the frame's grip and I think Lucy does too, although she isn't showing it any more than I am. The forearm of his other arm rests on a platform attached to the modified frame and is held there by a couple of straps so he can use it to help lift the whole contraption while he moves along.

"Well, it's that time again," I say to Gil, showing him the case I use to carry any documents I want to show him as part of our monthly review of his financial and other arrangements. I'd already been given Medical Power of Attorney by Gil after Sara left him and the court temporarily extended that on his behalf while he was still unconscious so I could deal with his affairs for him while he slept. When he was able to, Gil indicated he wanted the situation to continue, so now I have legal responsibility for almost everything about his financials and other major stuff, but I make sure I involve him and run any decisions past him as much as possible; something that Lucy has always encouraged, even when Gil found it difficult to give much input.

Gil nods and, rather than lift his hand off the walker again, jerks his head in the direction of the table where his reading glasses have been placed and his touch screen computer is already up and running. While I go over and start to arrange the paperwork I brought, Gil resumes his stomp, shuffle towards his seat at the other end of the table.

I remember when Gil first tried to use a walking frame. He was obviously eager to leave behind his wheelchair, probably seeing it as a major symbol of his disability. I'm pretty sure he also thought that the frame itself would be temporary, a step on the way to walking unaided once again. Even after falling a few times he insisted on continuing to try, losing his temper big time anytime someone suggested he take a break and maybe try again further down the road.

Eventually one of the falls left Gil with a badly sprained left wrist. With his good arm in a sling for a few weeks Gil was back in a position where he was unable to do anything for himself and it was then that he finally seemed to accept that the frame wasn't working for him.

I'm told that Gil's instability is more because of the damage to his inner ear than to any physical weakness in his legs. That's something that can never be fixed so, when Gil agreed to order a personalised motorised wheelchair to replace the loaner he was using, I thought that he'd pretty much given up on the idea of the walking frame. It's a real surprise to see him using it again.

With a final thump and an expressive grunt Gil reaches the table. Once he's safely sitting sideways on his chair, Lucy quietly disappears back through the door into her own bed-sitting room. I don't blame her. Other than her regular midweek days off, which coincide with the days when Gil has therapy all day instead of just in the morning, Lucy's on call around the clock, so taking time out while one of us is keeping Gil occupied is fair enough in my book and I know she'll be here in seconds if she's needed.

Meanwhile my friend is busy ripping off the Velcro straps securing his right arm and lifting the frame out of the way. Then he rotates in the chair and offers me a slightly weary smile.

"Hard work, huh?"

Gil responds with a slight grimace.

"That bad?"

He rolls his eyes in an 'isn't it obvious?' sort of way.

"But I guess it's worth it to be upright?"

A non-committal shrug.

Sometimes following Gil's unspoken half of the conversation can be surprisingly easy, I guess it's because I know him so well and, of course, I get a lot of practice at interpreting things which people aren't saying aloud. On other occasions it can be incredibly hard, especially when he gives an unexpected response like just now.

"So..." I pause, trying to find the right question to ask so that Gil can give me the answer easily, "...I guess it makes reaching for things easier, though, doesn't it?"

Gil shakes his head and then, in response to my puzzled frown, reaches over and grips the rail of the frame again. When he sees I'm still not getting it he lifts his hand off then rapidly puts it back again. Then he sighs at my density and points in the direction of Lucy's room before making 'talking' motions with his hand.

"Something Lucy said."

_Yes_ he says with a nod.

"About keeping your hand on the frame?"

_Finally you're getting there._ I recognise that expression from whenever it took me a little too long to grasp some concept Gil was using to help solve a case. Even before all this happened Gil knew how to speak volumes without opening his mouth.

"You have to hold on all the time because you don't have a sense of balance to tell you you're about to fall, by the time you realise you're going over it's too late to grab on again?"

A sad smile while he nods says, _yup, you've got it, and it's not something I'm very happy about._

"So, however strong your legs get you're going to be stuck holding onto that thing, so you can't use your hand to pick things up or take advantage of being upright?"

Gil makes a quick pointing gesture of the 'give the man a prize' variety, but his expression is far from humorous.

"Look, I'm sorry if I'm being particularly dense today, Gil, but it seems to me that you're putting in a lot of hard work, not to mention risking hurting yourself, for not much benefit, if you are never going to be able to do more using the frame than you can already manage with your chair."

I can see from Gil's face that my argument makes sense.

"So why..?" Damn, I stop myself, somehow I never learn. 'Why' is just about the worst question you can ask Gil, it's such a general query that he just doesn't have an easy way to answer. All the same, it looks like he's going to try. His hand is already moving over his computer's screen. I sit back slightly to allow him the time he needs, having asked the question I don't want to draw attention to his difficulties by trying to withdraw my mistake.

Gil keeps pressing different parts of the screen, it's taking him a while but then I'm told that it isn't just a case of knowing the word he wants and then finding it in the database, Gil doesn't process things like that anymore, he just has a nebulous, non-verbal, feeling of what he wants to say and then he has to work his way down through the various options until an appropriate word appears. That isn't so bad when he's looking for something concrete like a specific noun; if he wants an apple then he works his way through 'food', 'fruit', etc. until he sees a picture of an apple appear; but it takes longer for verbs and, when it comes to something less concrete like a feeling or emotion it's tougher still.

Watching Gil's face as he pores over the screen I realise that he must be struggling, his brow is deeply furrowed and, as I watch, his nostrils start to flare a little which is never a good sign.

"Gil?" I decide to risk interrupting rather than let frustration spoil things so early on in my visit, but Gil's response is a hard glare after which he returns to the computer once more.

"Gil," I try again, "I'm sorry, you don't need to try and answer that, I shouldn't have asked. I'm just concerned that you're risking hurting yourself again if there isn't going to be much benefit for you from doing this but it's your choice, you don't have to justify it to me."

Gil stops and removes his glasses. For a moment he rests his head on his left hand and massages his temples with his thumb and fingertip. I allow him to try and compose himself, I'm not sure if he's frustrated at not being able to express himself, angry because he is struggling to use the walker, or mad at me for suggesting that this may be a bad idea, and that makes it dangerous to try and interfere. All I can do is take a step back and hope that the work Gil's been putting in with Lucy can help him master his turbulent emotions.

Of course I could get Lucy to come and help Gil out, but there are a few reasons why I don't; firstly Gil needs to have the chance to deal with this by himself, it'll really boost his confidence if he can. Next are the more practical issues; I don't want to leave my friend alone when he's like this, but shouting or trying to reach the radio call button that hangs around Gil's neck could be enough to trigger an outburst of rage. Gil used to be the most placid man I ever met, except for when he came up against the odd, easily predictable, trigger. I know Gil used to be attacked for not showing enough emotion, but I think they'd have kept quiet if they'd known how much losing that control would affect him. For me it's probably the most significant change caused by the brain damage, above even the more obvious physical stuff, for Gil I think it's the most frightening.

Gil pulls his hand away from his face but doesn't look up, he's staring at the table, glassy eyed. His paralysed hand lies limp on the tabletop in front of him and now he settles his left one beside it. I notice it's curled into a fist now, so tight that the tendons stand out and the knuckles are showing white.

I hold my breath, as long as Gil remains still there's a chance this can dissipate without too much trouble, but I ready myself to grab his precious computer and get it and myself clear if he erupts into violence.

Things seem to balance on a knife edge for an immeasurable length of time, but then I notice that Gil's breaths are becoming a little more measured. His gaze becomes less dead and more focussed although still fixed on his hands.

Slowly I realise that he's carefully uncurling the fingers of his left hand and I wonder if this is a trick he's learnt to help him diffuse tension, using his unresponsive hand as a pattern of perfect relaxation to help him release the feelings pent up in the rest of his body.

His good hand finally unfurled, Gil releases a gust of breath and then lowers his head until it rests on his folded arms, his expression hidden from my sight. I find myself hovering, unsure what to do. The crisis seems to be past, but should I still call Lucy? I wait to see if Gil himself will give me some clue.

It pains me to hear a slight sob escape from my friend's lips, but at least I know how to deal with that. At first I found it embarrassing to hug Gil, not because of his disabilities, but because neither of us used to be the hugging kind of guys, not even the macho, slap-on-the-back kinds of hugs. All the same I've gotten pretty used to it now, funnily enough just as Gil has regained some of his awareness of the social conventions and has begun to demand "'ugs" from his male friends less often.

Right now Gil seems glad of the contact, especially as I didn't wait for him to ask. Just a quick, sideways on, around the shoulders hug and then I move back, keeping my hand between his shoulder blades and moving it in circles in what I hope is a comforting way. I ask if he wants Lucy, but he shakes his head.

Being in my job I've learned that it's always useful to have a clean, unused, handkerchief in my pocket, I joke sometimes that I buy them wholesale. I take one out and hand it to Gil for clean up, although when he raises his head there are only a couple of teardrops visible. I receive a watery smile and a nod in response to my half whispered, "OK?" and so I return to my seat opposite.

Using an expansive gesture to indicate the collection of papers that I spread out earlier I change the subject by asking Gil if he wants to follow our usual pattern of routine stuff first and the hopefully more interesting one offs later. Looking for a response I notice that Gil is staring again, this time over my shoulder.

Just as I'm starting to worry that things are going downhill again I notice Gil's brow furrow in consternation. He turns and looks around quickly, first at his frame, then at where his wheelchair has been parked out of the way near his bedroom door. He seems almost panicked as once again he looks over my shoulder, craning a little this time. I follow his gaze myself just in time to see what looks like Sara Sidle's head disappear below my line of sight. That window looks onto the wide, wheelchair friendly, paved path that leads up to this building before dividing and coming around to the doors of the separate living units, so she'll be at the door in a few moments.

Gil has taken hold of the walking frame now and appears to be trying to hide it under the table. I doubt that it would fit easily at the best of times and Gil's attempts to do it one-handedly whilst remaining seated look like they're going to end in a buckled frame, a broken table, a damaged Gil Grissom or possibly all three.

"I take it you don't want Sara to know you're trying that?"

The glare tells me that _the master detective strikes again_.

"Here." I take the frame out of Gil's hand, lift it clear over the table and shove it into the corner behind the couch. It's a hiding place that won't stand close inspection, but at least it's an improvement on Gil's attempt. Just in time too, Sara is at the entrance just as I sit down again. It's still open from when I arrived, so she just steps inside smiling.

"Hey, Jim," she greets me, "hey, you," she continues in a softer voice, bending down to hug Gil. He returns Sara's embrace with enthusiasm, although his confused expression when he looks at me over the top of her head shows that he certainly wasn't expecting her arrival. His eyes flick towards his wheelchair again. It's not unusual for Gil to transfer to an ordinary chair when it's more convenient, comfortable or appropriate for what he's doing, but his wheelchair is normally left a lot closer to hand for when he needs it again. I respond wordlessly myself this time, merely shrugging, doing anything about the chair now would only draw attention to it. Whatever motives Gil has for not letting Sara know what he's trying to do, he's going to have to realise that his cover is almost certainly blown, if anyone knows that you can't get much past Sara Sidle, it should be him.

The pleading look he gives with his eyes looking so wide and blue must work every time with the ladies; and me too, it seems. As Gil finally releases Sara from his arms I find myself starting to dissemble.

"Ah, Sara today is supposed to be when Gil and I have our monthly stroll through his paper work, it's kind of boring so maybe..." Maybe what? Sara's driven quite a way out of Vegas to get here, so suggesting she comes back later isn't reasonable. No, may as well give up now, it's not going to work, I'll just have to apologise to Gil later. Sara is looking at me, better finish that sentence. "...Maybe I should put it away for now and come back to it later?"

Gil scowls at me for a moment, but then his eyes slide towards Sara and a little smile appears on his face, there's humour in his expression now, I think he likes the idea that he's not the only one Ms. Sidle can throw off balance.

"No, it's OK," Sara says smiling and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, "I'll catch you guys later and maybe we can do something together then."

She touches Gil's shoulder gently. "For once seeing you isn't the main reason why I came," she tells him and then starts to walk across the room, "I'm actually here to see Lucy."

With that Sara taps gently on the door to Lucy's domain.

Apparently Lucy's expecting her, because she emerges straight away and, after suggesting they leave us to it, she and Sara grab a couple of bottles of water from the refrigerator and head outside.

For a long moment Gil and I just look at each other, then I realise I should be taking advantage of the time. Sara and Lucy appear to be settling themselves on a couple of the chairs that, together with a few tables, are dotted around the grounds under the cottonwood trees that give this place its name. Once they're organized they'll probably be able to look through the large glass doors and see us, even though we're out of earshot, so I quickly go and grab the frame. I shoot the query "closet?" at Gil and he nods, so I put it out of sight in his bedroom. When I come out again the women seem to be exchanging pleasantries and rearranging the furniture a little to gather just the right balance of sun and shade so, while they're still distracted, I bring Gil's wheelchair back with me and park it in a more convenient place for him to use when he wants to leave the table. Now we just have to hope that Sara won't notice that it wasn't in that position before.

"So, I guess that tells me why you're trying the frame again, you want to surprise Sara with your 'progress'." I'm not sure if that's a good idea. While it might be a nice surprise for Sara to see that Gil isn't totally dependent on a wheelchair to get around it might give her a false impression of improvement in Gil's condition and lead to disappointment further on. I decide not to say anything though, I'm not exactly a relationship expert and Gil's relationship with Sara is their business; but I will be there if either of them ever wants my help.

Gil is staring through the glass doors at Sara and Lucy and doesn't respond to my comment. At first I assume it's because he's too interested in what they're doing to notice me, but then the red marks on his earlobe that are only just fading into scars remind me that he has his deaf ear towards me. When there isn't much background noise Gil manages pretty well with just one working ear, if the sound comes from the front or his right, but when sounds come from the other side he runs into trouble, sometimes missing them altogether.

"Hey, Buddy!" I raise my voice and Gil turns back to face me, blinking. "So, what are they talking about?"

Gil points at himself.

"Yeah, that part I'd figured out, I was just wondering if you'd managed to lip read anything juicy?"

Gil shakes his head.

"Too far away, huh?"

Gil smiles slightly as if in confirmation but his left hand comes up and scratches behind his ear where the worst of his scarring is hidden by his hair. It's a 'tell' he's developed when he's thinking about his injuries and their effects and it occurs to me that, if he can no longer figure out how to form words for himself, maybe he can no longer do the reverse and work out what others are saying from the shapes their mouths make. I'm sure I've noticed him lip-reading me on some occasions, but maybe it's easier if he's just filling in gaps here and there. And then there's the fact that he can't produce language himself but can understand everything he reads or hears just fine; how does that affect lip-reading? All this stuff's way too complicated for me, I just know that it would be a sad irony if the injury that left him partially deaf also robbed him of one of the tools he should have been able to use to overcome it.

"Well, if there's no way of knowing what those two are up to I guess we should get on with our own business." I pass Gil his latest credit card statement. He can no longer sign to make payments but he still has a card for internet purchases and for Lucy to use on his behalf. While I'm confident that Lucy won't misuse the power, mainly because I performed a little vetting of my own on top of the paperwork Cottonwood House provided, with the card also being used over the internet it's wise to check for any unexpected activity on the account.

Putting his glasses back on, Gil briefly scans the document before nodding and I pass over his latest bank statement for a similar perusal, ready to explain any changes to the various payments going in and out. Gil just glances at the page and passes it back to me before turning his head to glance outside again, clearly more interested in what's going on out there than in here. Who could blame him though, not many men would be comfortable with the two most important women in their lives having a conversation to which they're not invited.

"It could be worse, you know," I say, loudly enough for him to hear me. Gil gives me a sharp glance. "Heather Kessler could have been out there too."

The only response is a raised eyebrow on an otherwise blank face. Gil always seems to turn enigmatic when Ms. Kessler is mentioned, I don't think he realises it only makes for more scuttlebutt or maybe he does and he likes the 'reputation' it gives him. Of course there may be another reason. Lady Heather seems to care about him enough that she visited Gil in hospital and has even be known to call on him here, but those calls are becoming increasingly rare and I've come to wonder if she's struggling to maintain her 'friendship' with Gil now that they can't indulge in the old verbal sparring. Still at least she hasn't cut contact altogether, so far anyhow.

Gil's turns away again. I should be encouraging him to go over his mail, but my own curiosity has me following his gaze.

I soon see why Gil is so distracted; although the women seemed friendly enough when Sara first arrived something seems to have changed. Sara is out of her seat and pacing, her arms folded over her chest. Lucy, who is pretty sharp when it comes to body language, is clearly aware of the meaning of this half aggressive, half defensive behaviour and is trying to diffuse it by remaining seated, leaning back and keeping a friendly smile on her face. She's letting Sara vent about something, I think.

As we watch Sara seems to come to the end of whatever she's trying to say. She halts in her pacing and allows he hands to drop to her sides but stays on her feet. Lucy has started to talk now and after a few sentences I see Sara's head come up sharply as if she's surprised by what she's hearing. A few sentences more and Sara pulls up a chair. Within a matter of minutes the two of them have their heads together and seem to be discussing things in some detail. Occasionally Sara makes frustrated or angry gestures with her arms but generally the atmosphere between them seems to be moving from confrontation to collaboration.

I touch Gil on his arm.

"Shall we get on?" I ask, although maybe Gil has more to worry about if those two start to work together than he would have if they were at odds.

Gil sighs and turns back to the table. I grab a few letters from my case that he should see. Although I've taken over most of this stuff, Catherine helps by doing her bit. Except for a few magazine subscriptions that come straight here, and account statements which come to me, most of Gil's mail and email goes to Catherine; either directly, by forwarding, or because it's been sent to the lab. Obviously Cath would be dealing with the lab related stuff anyway, but she's also created a few standard letters that cover the various invitations Gil gets to speak or write. More personal stuff she passes on to me to give to Gil and then he uses his computer to make very brief notes that Catherine then refers to when writing back. He hasn't really kept up with much correspondence for obvious reasons, but there are a few people who are making a real effort to keep in touch with him via Catherine. Any mail that doesn't fit into a standard category or requires a decision that isn't obvious I also bring for Gil to see.

"I have an interesting one here for you Gil. You remember you were supposed to speak at that conference a couple of months after you got hit?"

Gil's eyes narrow briefly as he thinks, although the only memories he's completely lost are those for about ten hours immediately before he was attacked, it does seem to take extra concentration for him to recall general events from about six months before that, which is probably when that conference was arranged. Eventually he nods.

"Well obviously Catherine told them you couldn't attend then but we didn't have a solid prognosis for you so we just said not that year. They asked again last year and Catherine just sent one of her usual letters saying that you were unable to attend for health reasons."

Gil nods, looking slightly surprised that the conference organisers were so keen to have him. He looks even more surprised when I tell him that they tried again this year too.

"Catherine wrote back saying that although you're improving they shouldn't expect you to make sufficient progress ever to be a speaker and that she'd let them know if that changes in the future. This was the reply."

I hand him the sheet. Gil reads it, but I can tell what his response is before he's half way through. Gil's head has a perpetual slight wobbling motion, but the movement clearly becomes more negative and side to side the further through the letter he gets.

When he finally reaches the end he pushes the paper back towards me with a clearer and more fervent shake of the head, he's not interested.

"Are you sure, Buddy? They've made it clear that if you don't want to accept the lifetime achievement award formally you don't have to. They're at the Convention Center here in Vegas this year and, now that you're starting to get more confident about getting out and about I thought you might enjoy hearing some of the talks and meeting old friends."

Gil gives an expressive shudder and shakes his head again, gesturing at his appearance with a wave of his hand.

"You don't want those people to see you like this?"

He nods. He's obviously still feeling insecure about how people will react to him.

"I take it that you're more worried about the reactions from the people there that know you than the strangers?"

Gil actually ponders over that for a moment before agreeing.

"OK, well I think that the very fact they've voted to give you this award shows how much they like and respect you. It may be a little awkward when they're first confronted with what's happened, but they're smart guys who know you; they'll soon adjust and treat you just fine. Those who can't cope will probably just avoid you, and it'll be their loss, not yours."

I have to raise my voice to make sure Gil hears the end of that; he turned to look out at Sara and Lucy again about halfway through what I was saying. Remembering Catherine's confession about what happened when she first brought Sara here I can understand why. I touch his arm gently to get his attention back.

"Maybe you could have Sara go with you? She's shown an interest in entomology before hasn't she? Or maybe Nick, who's been trying to partially fill your bug hunting shoes at the lab? I'm sure Catherine would give him the time off to develop his job skills and Ecklie's bound to go for it once he finds out you've got a free pass for as many 'assistants' as you need. Did you know he promoted Ray Langston before he'd covered the required number of cases because he'd funded extra training courses out of his own pocket?"

Gil nods with a wry smile; I expect it was Catherine who told him about that one, she was not pleased; not so much because of the decision as because Ecklie didn't involve her. She was just getting her head around having to take over from Gil and learning to assert herself as the boss and, even if Ecklie didn't feel his decision was up for discussion, he should still have let Catherine give Langston the news. Instead he undermined what authority she'd been trying to build.

I can see Gil still isn't quite buying the idea of attending this year's 'Bugology' convention, but there comes a point where he will turn stubborn if you push too hard, so I'll leave it for now.

"Just think about it Gil, it's not for a few weeks yet and, with no accommodation to fix up, you could even register on the first day." Gil half nods at that, still distracted by the women outside. I think Catherine or I should probably see if the organisers will send us a programme of events Gil can see, maybe there will be something specific he'll want to go see.

There's not much more to go through, I hand Gil the remaining personal letters for him to read later and start to pack the other documents away. Gil looks thoughtful for a moment and then starts to play with his computer again – I hope he'll be more successful this time.

"'Im?"

I turn my attention back to my friend and he continues.

"S-ara."

It sounds like Gil and his speech therapist have decided to work on initial 'S' sounds now the 'G's have started to work; now there's a surprising choice!

"Sara, yes?"

"_Mad me, no tell?_" The computer voice takes over. I take a moment to figure out what he means; Gil's word order can be pretty erratic.

"You'd rather Sara didn't know you got mad earlier?"

Gil smiles sadly and nods to confirm my interpretation.

"OK, I probably wouldn't have bothered to mention it in front of Sara anyway, although I'd like Lucy to know how well you coped if that's OK?"

I get a shrug in response; I don't think Gil's as pleased with his anger management as I am.

"Does this mean that you don't think Sara knows that you get mad sometimes?" He shakes his head. "You mean she hasn't seen it happen?"

Gil mimes wiping away a tear and then nods. Next he raises his fist before shaking his head.

"She's seen you cry, but not really lose your temper."

This time I only get a long blink in confirmation; this is clearly an emotional issue for Gil.

"Are you frightened about what will happen if she does?

My friend just hangs his head.

I stand up and put an arm around his shoulders again.

"Then don't you think it would be an idea to raise the problem with Sara? Sooner or later she's going to see it happen and I'm sure she'll find it a lot less disturbing if it doesn't hit her from out of the blue."

Right when the words 'hit her' come out of my mouth I feel Gil tense beneath my loose embrace. Suddenly I realise what he's afraid of but, before I can think of anything to say, Lucy and Sara arrive.

They're both smiling. Lucy heads to drop their water bottles in the recycling bin in the kitchen area while Sara asks if we're all done. She doesn't seem to find it odd that I'm holding Gil like this, probably putting it down to one of Gil's random requests for hugs. With the paperwork all cleared from the table I can't deny we're finished.

"Well, in that case, maybe we can come up with something we can do as a threesome?" Sara asks, smiling, before rolling her eyes when she sees my eyebrow quirk at her accidental double-entendre.

"Actually, I had more of a foursome in mind." Lucy says, coming over to us. She's met by three inquisitive looks.

"Well, now that Gil's getting up and about so much more," Lucy continues, "I've decided that it shouldn't always have to be me who picks him off the floor if there's an accident so, Jim and Sara, with Gil playing the role of himself, I am going to teach you two how to check Gil for injuries after a fall and then how to safely get him back on his feet and onto a chair afterwards."

Oh, great. I can see that Gil thinks this will be as much fun as I do, but Sara and Lucy are grinning; Sara with enthusiasm and Lucy with a slightly worrying glint in her eye. I realise I was right to think that these two are going to be more trouble now that they seem to have forged an alliance; somehow I don't think there's going to be any chance of escape for me and Gil.


	8. Grissom Again

**Cottonwood House III**

**The Hand You're Dealt**

Disclaimer: No, CSI: still isn't mine. *sigh*. I did ask them to loan me Grissom while they're not using him but they refused. Apparently it was something to do with not treating him properly...

**Chapter 8**

**Grissom (Again)**

Staring out of the window at the empty street outside, I have to admit that it was a stomach churning moment when I watched Lucy drive away from here in the Cottonwood House van. I wonder if this combination of hope and fear is similar to how some of Heather's clients feel when they enter her Dominion for the first time. Like those people I don't know if the next few hours will be an introduction to a new and fulfilling part of my life, or an agonising experience that I'll never want to repeat. The comparison may seem extreme, but it's close enough that I even had to have a 'safety word' before I felt able to agree to trying this.

Lucy is staying with a friend here in town tonight and Sara has promised faithfully that she'll call her straight away if I need her, I just need to say Lucy's name. Lucy says she'll be back here at Sara's apartment within fifteen minutes and will help me deal with any problems or, if I prefer, drive me straight home without any arguments from either of the women. I just hope that a fifteen minute wait won't turn out to be far too long.

While I sit alone in the lounge of Sara's new home I tap my fingers on the arm rest of my wheelchair, beating out the staccato rhythm of my anxiety. Since I was attacked it's been almost like making the journey through infancy and childhood all over again. When I first regained awareness all I could do was lie helpless in my hospital bed, unable to do anything more than let my eyes follow the dancing rainbows of light shed from a crystal mobile that someone had brought in to hang by the window of my room. Unfortunately, unlike a baby, I was all too aware of the indignity of being washed and having my diapers changed by the nurses and, as time passed and I became a little stronger, the shame of sitting propped upright and obediently opening and closing my mouth while my former team took turns to carefully spoon feed me my meals because I literally couldn't lift a finger to do it for myself. I was pathetically grateful to be lifted into my 'stroller' to escape my hospital room for a while and be pushed around the hospital garden, having things of interest helpfully pointed out to me. Then, just like a toddler, when my attempts to learn to walk and talk again failed over and over again, I resorted to showing my frustration in the form of temper tantrums. Now, it seems, I've reached the milestone of my first 'sleepover' away from home. The stupid thing is that, in spite of my advancing years, I think the only thing that's stopping me wailing 'I wanna go home' is the fact that I have no idea how to even start forming the words.

I'd like to get Sara to give me a hug, a little physical reassurance would go a long way right now, but she's disappeared to fetch someone she wants me to meet, a neighbour probably, since she disappeared through the door that leads to the rest of her apartment which must mean she's headed out through her back yard instead of using the door that leads out into the communal hallway. Company is the last thing I want right now, a quiet evening in just as the two of us is as much as I want to try and cope with tonight.

A few weeks ago even that would have seemed unthinkable to me but since Sara came back I've found myself more willing to try new things, although I have to admit that I'm not always certain how much of it is for myself and how much is to show Sara that I'm not a lost cause. My recent attempts with the walking frame were probably an example of the latter. Some of my decision to try it again was simply that I agreed with my physical therapist when he suggested it would help strengthen my legs still further, and some of it was because I wanted the flexibility to be able to move around in places which aren't so wheelchair friendly, but most of it was just because I didn't want Sara to have the image of me as a wheelchair bound cripple in her head. I can't do much more to improve my speech than I am already and my right hand is literally beyond my control but being on my feet and back on Sara's eye level was something that seemed doable and felt really important. Once I'd decided to do it I wanted to surprise Sara by suddenly doing something she probably wouldn't expect. Then, after Sara sat down and had a long talk with Lucy, there was the session with Jim and Sara when they learned how best to rescue me after a fall and I realised that the last thing I want is for Sara to have to keep picking me up after I've fallen flat on my face so, although I intend to continue using the frame for therapeutic and convenience reasons, I've made it clear to Dan, my therapist, that I'd like to try other ways to strengthen my legs and I've accepted that Sara needs to go through the process I did and learn to take progress as and when it happens and not put on some faked performance to give the impression that I'm progressing in leaps and bounds. The big 'reveal' of me 'walking' across the room towards Sara has been scrapped – I'd probably just have screwed it up anyway.

There's the sound of a door opening. I perform a careful three point turn using the space Sara has left conveniently clear of furnishings and make sure I'm facing the closed door with a polite smile on my face, ready to make as good an impression as I can on Sara's friend.

To my surprise the door is pushed open not by a hand but by a nose and a rather lugubrious looking brown and white Boxer dog with black smudges around his nose, ears and on his legs enters the room. Seeing me he comes to a halt, eyeing me suspiciously. I back my chair up a little – purely to give the dog more room to come in, of course.

"Do you like him?" Sara asks, following the hound into the room. "He was kind of a leaving gift from the rescue centre. They knew I'd fallen in love with him and offered to take care of him until all the mess and disruption was out of the way and I had a safe and stable home to bring him back to."

I nod my understanding. I can't help thinking that those are probably the same reasons why Sara hasn't invited me here until now either. I feel myself warming to the dog; I guess he and I are both Sara Sidle rescue projects in our own ways.

It seems the animal has sensed something too. He's been perfectly still until now, regarding me with his head tilted to one side but, accompanied by the patter of nails on Sara's new wheelchair and, it seems, paw friendly hard floor he approaches me before placing his head on my lap, right where it's convenient for me to reach and pet him. I find myself breaking into a smile as I use my left hand to gently scuff the fur between his ears.

Looking up at Sara I see that she's grinning too.

"His name is Bruno." Sara looks at me expectantly.

Continuing to scratch gently at Sara's new friend's head I feel my eyes narrow slightly and my brow furrow as I try to figure out how to say the dog's name. I already know it's probably not going to come though, when I try to say a name my mouth often starts making little practice movements of its own before I've quite worked out how to proceed and those twitchings haven't started. My speech therapist thinks those little actions may be why I often fail to sound the first part of a name, because not everything is falling into place at the same time. On this occasion nothing is falling into place at all, for whatever reason clearly the word 'Bruno' wasn't stored in the tiny bit of my spoken lexicon that has survived. Giving up the struggle I just look up at Sara and shake my head slightly.

"OK, well perhaps we could change it, he only got that name after he arrived at the shelter, one of the guys thought that it would be fun to name him after some British fighter. I think that boxer's first name was Frank. Maybe we could try that?"

I nod to confirm that the guy's name was indeed Frank. I'm not entirely sure it's an ideal name for a dog, but this time my mouth does seem to be willing to co-operate, so I give it a try.

"'Ank."

The dog lifts its head slightly, tilting it to one side in a listening stance. I wonder what he's been making of my silence up until now. Pleased that he's listening I try again, hoping to get something that sounds a little more like the word I'm aiming for.

"'Ank."

The dog tilts his head to the other side. I look at Sara apologetically. I may be managing to get my initial 'G' sounds in these days, and I'm making headway with my 'S'es, but that's all I've achieved so far in that respect. Not having any friends whose names begin with 'F' that sound isn't even on the list my speech therapist and I put together for me to begin working through.

Sara walks over and stoops down to pat her pet. Looking up at me she smiles.

"How about we just make it 'Hank'?"

I raise an eyebrow to register my surprise but Sara just shrugs.

"I think we've both been through too much over the last few years to still be worried about my disaster of an ex-boyfriend, don't you?"

I couldn't agree more. Determinedly I fix my gaze on the hound in front of me and speak as firmly and clearly as I can.

"'Ank."

"Woof."

"Well, I guess that's settled then."

For a few minutes we both fuss over the hound, repeating his new name frequently to encourage him to learn it. Then Sara stands up and, wiping her hands on the back of her pants in a businesslike manner, suggests that it's time to give me the guided tour. Obligingly I follow her through the door which leads to a central hallway from which all of the apartment's rooms can be accessed. It's actually quite large for one of these little crossroads and there's plenty of room for me to manoeuvre in spite of Hank's large bed being located in one corner. First I'm shown the kitchen which is smart and clean but without any fancy extras except for a built in coffee machine which can apparently produce a single cup of coffee in about thirty seconds. It seems that Sara's priorities still place a good, fast, caffeine hit over producing a gourmet meal. Proudly Sara points out that the refrigerator is at a good height for me to reach and that she chose the stools for the breakfast bar because they are easy to climb onto and have curved back supports so I shouldn't fall off too easily once I'm up there.

Next I get a quick glance into Sara's bedroom which is much as I'd imagined it would be like, although a little tidier than I expected, but that could just be because she knew I was coming to visit. Directly across from that is the guest room where, if all goes according to plan, I will be staying the night. Painted in a greyish blue with cream woodwork and with light coloured wooden furnishings; like all the rooms it's sparsely furnished. Apart from the built in closet there's just a queen bed, a couple of lockers and a low chest of drawers against the wall with a small TV set standing on top.

"I'm sorry the bed isn't as adjustable as you're used to, but I've put plenty of pillows on there if you need to prop yourself up."

I nod in acknowledgement and drive up to the bed. Pressing with my hand I check to see if the bed is as high as it seems or if it's just an extra thick duvet. I'm pleased to note that the mattress is both high and firm, it will be easy to transfer to and from my chair and to sit on it while I change my clothes. The choice of a duvet over a comforter and blankets suits me too, there are fewer layers for me to fight and get tangled up in. I smile my appreciation at Sara.

"I wanted this room to suit you as much as possible, it's not like I'll be having hordes of other guests to stay, although I stopped short at putting bugs on the walls just in case someone else does use the room, I wouldn't like them to have nightmares."

I smile at the joke but secretly I'm hoping that I won't have my own bad dreams tonight or at least that Sara won't hear me if I do.

The final room inside the apartment is the bathroom. It's the only one in the property but the layout means that it's convenient for both bedrooms. I know Sara's worked hard on this particular room because she was telling me about her efforts to get the builders to understand exactly what she wanted, like placing the rectangular wall tiles in straight rows rather than stepping them like bricks, which she thought would make the place seem too institutional. I prepare myself to show some appreciation of her choices, even though I'm expecting to have to ask for Sara's help to use the room and probably keep my ablutions to the minimum until I get back to the specially equipped facilities in my own home.

No.

I swallow deeply and close my eyes. Seeing what Sara's done in the bathroom creates one of those 'Grissom moments' as they used to call them in the lab; only this time it's not because I've reached some sudden insight, it's because I've been ignoring the other evidence I've seen before now. The fact that Sara chose a ground floor apartment I put down to her desire to have access to her own little back yard, which made even more sense when I met Hank. The convenient ramp up to the street door of the block and the lack of a raised doorstep between the kitchen and the back yard I dismissed because most reasonably modern buildings have disability friendly access now. I thought that the new floors were just more to Sara's taste than carpets and that the height of the fridge was simply a happy coincidence; and if Sara was choosing stools and was trying to narrow down her final choice then, fair enough, she probably would take my needs into account. But this bathroom, this whole new bathroom, says there's so much more to it than that.

I thought Sara understood my choice to remain living where I am, that she'd at least give our changed relationship time to settle before asking me to reconsider; I might even have been agreeable, in time and without pressure. Seeing what Sara has done in this bathroom makes the pressure come thudding down on me so hard I can almost feel my head pulsate. In fact a lightning flash of pain causes me to raise my hand to the left side of my head where the damage is focused.

I could have dismissed the large, walk-in shower as Sara's preference, except I know how much she liked a bubble bath now and then and with the shower so big there's only room for the smallest of tubs tucked away in the corner, but it's the fold down seat and grab rails inside the shower stall that are yelling at me, together with similar rails around the toilet and the fact that the hand basin is higher than normal with no storage underneath, oh so convenient for someone sitting in a wheelchair. Even the taps are operated by easy to manage levers. If it weren't for that tiny bath tub this might as well be my bathroom at Cottonwood House.

"Do you like it?" Sara asks.

She wants me to like it because she wants me to live here. She thinks that by making the place wheelchair friendly she'll convince me that I should move in with her. Does she imagine that 'if she builds it Griss will come'? I can't cope with this.

Another flash of pain reminds me to check for a different kind of evidence. Is this the start of one of my tantrums? My hand is still raised to my head but, lowering it, I see that it's clenched into a fist. I try and remember where the pains in my head have focussed, above and behind my ear usually means my blood pressure is up, underneath my ear means I'm clenching my jaw and putting strain on the repair that was done there. Right now I'm getting signals from both. Finally I realise that my head's swinging motion has increased to the point where my brain has ceased to filter it out. I have to get away fast before I blow.

With only the barest glance to check that Sara and Hank are out of the way I reverse my wheelchair and somehow make it into the guest bedroom, flailing the deadweight of my right hand enough to slam the door behind me as I pass. Briefly I wonder why Sara hasn't had this door replaced with a sliding one, but then maybe she's hoping she'll need that for the master bedroom instead.

Somehow I get out of my chair and fling myself onto the bed. Randomly I propel every single stupid one of the stupid over large heap of stupid over stuffed pillows and cushions that Sara left in a great big stupid pile at the top of this stupid bed around this stupid room, grunting loudly as I lob each one through the air. I don't know what I'm going to do. I should get Sara to call Lucy and have her fetch me home, but I'm almost as hurt by my caretaker's betrayal as I am by Sara's decision to ignore my wishes. Lucy visited here last week to check if I'd be able to manage an overnight stay but she gave me no warnings about what I'd find. Maybe she wants me to leave Cottonwood House as well; maybe she wouldn't even want to come with me if I did. I thought Lucy cared but can I be sure? I didn't read that side of people well even before I was attacked, have I got it completely wrong all this time?

With no pillows left to throw I flip over onto my stomach and begin to pound the mattress with my one good hand.

God I wish I was back in the time when it didn't matter to me whether anyone cared or not. I wish I was still in control of my own life.

Sara's head appears around the door, doesn't she get that I shut it for a reason?

"Gil, baby, are you OK?" she asks.

Don't call me 'baby', I am _not_ a baby! I glare at Sara and let loose a sound not dissimilar to a snarl. Her eyes actually widen for a moment.

"I just wanted to know if I should call Lucy."

I shake my head vehemently, maybe fifteen minutes from now I'll wish I'd said yes, but right now I don't want anyone near me. I point Sara out of the door and, thankfully, she only pauses a second before going through it.

My head's hurting so much by now that I'm trying to hold it with both hands, even though one just won't cooperate. I need my blood pressure and anti-inflammatory meds or I'll be in pain for a week. That small piece of logic clears the red fog of anger enough for me to remember that the drugs are still in my backpack and that the bag is still hung on the back of my wheelchair. There's probably a bottle of water that I can use to swallow them with in there too.

The chair is a few feet away; I must have forgotten to lock the brakes and then shoved it backwards when I threw myself out of it. Rolling over to the edge of the bed, I stand and start to head across the room.

Suddenly the room shifts around me and, with a horrible thud, I find myself on the floor gasping to get my breath. Logic may have told me to get my meds but it forgot to remind me to hold onto something while I tried to walk.

The shock of falling is as effective as a bucket of ice cold water in snapping me out of my mood. What the Hell have I done? I guess I've just changed Sara's mind, if she wanted me to share this apartment with her before I'm sure she doesn't now. I curl up into a ball, knowing that I'm stuck here on the floor until Sara decides to check on me again, which would be some time next year if I were her.

What is that noise? There's a scrabbling just outside the door. A whimper follows and suddenly I remember Sara's new pet.

"'Ank?" The name comes out as more of a whimper than a shout. I don't do yelling anymore, the louder I try to get the more incoherent the sound.

The dog barks and scratches again.

"Come away boy, I think Gil wants to be left alone for a bit."

"'Ara."

It's not loud enough for her to hear unless she's listening very hard, but Hank's sensitive ears catch the sound. He yelps and scratches harder. I hope Sara doesn't drag him away, even if she leaves again at least I'll know that he's there and cares if I'm OK.

"Gil?"

I remain silent, hoping that Sara remembers that no response actually means 'come in'. I daren't try calling her name, if it comes out wrong or isn't loud enough to make out properly she might think I'm sending her away again.

"I'm coming in Gil, but just to check you're OK, I'll go away again if you want me to."

Thank God. The door opens but Sara is beaten through it by Hank. He rushes towards me and gives me a hurried sniff all over before stopping at my head, his pink tongue darting out as if he wants to lick away the tears that I suddenly realise are running down my cheeks. I push the dog's head away gently before he actually slobbers on me and then, using him for support, I manage to sit up. Wrapping my arms around him I hide my face from Sara by resting my forehead on Hank's shoulder.

"Oh, Gil, have you been down here long?" Surprisingly Sara's voice is soft as she squats down beside me and her hand rubs gentle circles on my back. I shake my head without lifting it from its place of safety on Hank's back. I'm ashamed and embarrassed and I can't bring myself to face Sara. I'm still hurt by what she's done, but that's no excuse for my behaviour.

Seeing that I'm not letting go of Hank, Sara tries to jolly me along. In a tone that quite closely imitates the one Jim uses in hostage situations she tells me that I need to let the dog go, that I'm going to have to release him eventually and that while she's willing to negotiate we both know that she only has to say the word... She spells something at this point, presumably so that Hank doesn't understand, but unfortunately it also means that I don't. Still, I get the hint, sooner or later my 'shield' is going to get bored and wander off seeking food, exercise or a trip into the back yard for other reasons. Slowly I release my grip, only for Hank to turn around, give me another quick sniff and then sit down close beside me on the opposite side to Sara, a solid warm presence for me to lean against.

Sara gives a slight sniff of amusement. "It looks like somebody's nominated himself as your unofficial service dog. Now, is there a chance I could get one of those hugs from you as well?"

I respond with my own sniff, in my case it's to clear my nose of the slight blockage brought on by my tears. A hug would be perfect right now, comforting and giving me a little extra time to compose myself. I start to lift my arms but then wince and for the first time I realise that I must have injured my shoulder when I fell.

Seeing my grimace Sara suddenly remembers her training session with Lucy. It looks like my hug is going to have to go on hold. Stroking the creases that spread out from the corners of my eyes she says, "You're in pain, I should have seen that before. It's the first thing I should have checked."

Shifting onto her knees so that she can start to check me over visually, Sara asks me to point out where I hurt. I indicate my right shoulder and then, because I get another sharp pain from behind my ear, I automatically move my hand to my head.

"Gil, did you hit your head when you fell?" Sara sounds alarmed. I shake my head and then turn it so that she can see that I'm pointing at the site of my old wound, and then I mime taking a handful of pills, following up with a finger pointing towards my wheelchair and the bag that's suspended from its handles.

"You have a headache?"

Nod.

"And your meds are on your wheelchair."

Nod.

"Is that where you were headed when you fell?"

Nod.

"So why didn't you use this?" Sara reaches forward and taps me on the chest, or rather on the spot where my emergency button still hangs around my neck, tucked safely underneath my shirt. I close my eyes in disbelief at my own stupidity.

"Did you forget that Lucy gave me the receiver before she left?" I nod even though that's actually only a half truth, grateful for a slightly less embarrassing admission than that, in the red haze I was in at the time, I actually forgot about the damn thing altogether. Sara shakes her head at me an affectionate smile on her face. At least she doesn't call me an absent minded idiot out loud.

"OK, so you've done something to your shoulder. Apart from that and your headache, are you hurting anywhere else?"

I shake my head.

"OK, then I'll just check your right hand for you and then we'll get you up and onto the chair or bed before I fetch your pills and see what kind of patching up job I need to do on that shoulder."

I offer Sara my right hand, the one part of my body that I wouldn't necessarily notice if I'd damaged. As soon as I do I realise that I did hurt it. I can see now that there's a nasty scrape across the knuckles and the redness that's an early sign of future bruising.

"Nasty," Sara comments, "but the evidence suggests you didn't do it when you fell." At my questioning look she points out that the scrape has already started to scab over in the few spots where there was a little bleeding and that there are a few tiny drops of blood on the bed sheet. It looks like I did the damage when I slammed the bedroom door using my dud hand and was too busy ranting and raging to notice at the time.

Sara remains calm, she doesn't seem to be judging me; I think she knows that I can manage that for myself. "OK, so I need to patch that up for you as well as your shoulder. I can't use ice on it though, can I?" I shake my head, I've heard the rule often enough; 'never use ice or heat on a patient with limited movement or sensation in that area'.

"OK, let's get you more comfortable and then sort you out. Bed or chair?"

I choose the bed and Sara gets me up, working from my right side to avoid hurting my shoulder or hand any further. Hank keeps out of the way but wanders up to the bed and tucks his head under my left hand, nudging for attention while Sara wordlessly rescues enough of the scattered pillows to make me comfortable in a sting position.

By the time Sara returns from fetching water and a small first aid kit Hank has jumped up on the bed and is lying against my left side. Sara shakes her head at the sight but I just look back innocently, even if I'd known that Hank wasn't supposed to be up here I could hardly tell him 'down boy' could I? With the air of somebody who knows they're beaten before even starting an argument Sara just shrugs and continues around the bed so that she can work on my right side. The t-shirt I'm wearing has loose sleeves, so Sara only has to help me take off the loose, collarless, casual jacket I'm wearing over the top to access my shoulder.

"The skin isn't broken, but it looks like you're going to get a nasty bruise, I think you must have hit something going down, maybe it was one of the footrests on your chair. I'll just put some Witch Hazel on it; I find it really helps soothe me and get the bruising to come and go quicker when I give myself a nasty bang."

After dabbing at my shoulder with moistened cotton wool, Sara moves onto my hand.

"Well, at least I don't have to warn you that it's going to sting." I watch in a disconnected way as she cleans the damaged skin and then dresses my hand, wrapping a light bandage around it to keep everything in place.

"I'm going to be in so much trouble with Lucy for not returning you in the same condition that she left you."

I shake my head, it's not Sara's fault that I got hurt; I managed it all by myself. I wish that Sara wouldn't talk like she feels that she should have been watching me like she would a young child; I'm a middle aged man and take responsibility for my own actions, Sara's not my baby sitter any more than Lucy is my Mom, and no-one should place the blame for my injuries anywhere but with me. I heave a sigh, realising that there isn't much hope for an adult relationship between me and Sara if she doesn't even see me as a grown man anymore. Not that I haven't encouraged that perception by the way I've behaved today. Sara is concentrating on my hand too much to notice my hurt at her casual comment, but perhaps that's for the best.

"Well, there's not enough swelling to make me think that you've broken anything, but there is some so, if it can't be iced, I'd like to put your arm in a sling so that your hand is raised above your heart which might keep the swelling down a bit. Then, if it doesn't go down by tomorrow morning, you can get one of the Cottonwood House doctors to look at your knuckles properly. A sling will take some of the pressure off your shoulder too."

I nod my acceptance of the suggestion, it's not like I'll be much more handicapped with the sling in place than without it. Sara folds the scarf she's found for the purpose and then ties it in place.

"You haven't asked me to call Lucy for you." she states, "I'm pleased about that, I'd hoped that we could spend some of this evening trying out a few of the communication methods that Lucy's been teaching me, maybe cover some ground that we wouldn't with her around. I want to try that even more now, because I'd like to understand why you got so spooked when you saw my bathroom just now. I wouldn't have stopped you leaving if you wanted to go but I was worried that if you did I might never know about what was so upsetting for you that it made you behave that way."

Sara moves back and gently strokes the side of my face.

"You don't have to run away from me, Gil, let's work through this, not around it, OK?"

I nod my head, I want to try and 'talk' about a few things too, including why Sara's being so kind to me when I've just given her every reason to want to hand me back to Lucy as soon as possible. Maybe, if I work really hard for the rest of my stay, this might not be the last Sara ever wants to see of me.

**A/N** OK, yes, I know that some of you were hoping that the big 'talk' would at least begin in this chapter, but I'm afraid that you're just going to have to wait a little longer. That's because this chapter would have ended up being far too long and posted much later if I'd included everything in it that I originally intended to. The good news is that means that this story will have at least one more chapter than I previously said – I said 'at least' just in case the next chapter gets away from me too!


	9. Sara Again

**A/N** This is the hardest chapter I've ever had to write and has taken me longer to complete than any other as well. I can't even tell you why, it certainly hasn't been Real Life getting in the way, well no more than usual anyway; in fact it's been more like the opposite, because recently it's been the story that has got in the way of real life. This means I need to apologise to all the people whose recent chapters I've failed to review, I've even stopped reading other people's work for the last few days in an effort to finally get this chapter finished. I will do my best to get some serious reading and reviewing done over the next few days before I dive into the next chapter and, in the meantime, I'll just have to hope that none of you will decide to take your revenge and not leave feedback on this offering of mine. Thanks for sticking with me.

**Cottonwood House III**

**The Hand You're Dealt**

**Chapter 9**

**Sara Again**

This was meant to be the perfect conversation, a proper two way interaction instead of the monologues we've both seemed to resort to since my return. The big discussion in which, in spite of Gil's difficulties, we would somehow manage to figure out a solution to every problem that has ever arisen between us and then come up with a master plan for the solid foundation on which our relationship will develop in the future. It was going to be a great opportunity to employ the techniques which Lucy has been helping us with over the last few weeks without the inhibitions I've inevitably felt about discussing anything personal in front of someone who, whatever she has become to Gil, is still pretty much a stranger to me.

Right now, however, nearly ten minutes after I helped Gil balance while he took the few steps from the couch to a chair at my dining table, I am staring at a large, almost completely blank sheet of paper and Gil, his reading glasses perched at the end of his nose, has spent most of that time hunched over his computer plugging away through the various menus of his voice synthesizer software.

Part of me is already tempted to give up, to just tell Gil to forget about this and persuade him to return to the couch where we can spend the rest of the evening relaxing with the dog at our feet and a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table in front of us while some suitably familiar and undemanding DVD plays. Remembering Greg's comments about the kinds of things Gil finds easiest to watch these days I've already picked out a few old favourites from a box that Gil had placed in storage for me. Looking over at my friend I've decided to restrain myself for a little longer though, Gil's working so hard I'd hate to interrupt him now and risk breaking his concentration when he may be right on the brink of finding the exact word he's been looking for. Besides it hardly says much for my staying power in trying to rebuild a relationship with the 'new' Gil if I can't even give him the time he needs to express himself properly.

I wish I was a more patient person. Gil may be throwing the odd tantrum, something I know he's embarrassed about, but that's nothing to how I'd be reacting in the same situation. I've also started to realise that one of the things I misunderstood about Lucy was caused by my envy of her patience with Gil. I reasoned that for someone to be that perseverant with another person there must be more to it than altruism or even friendship, and that made me decide that Lucy was a challenger for Gil's affections – after all I once took a job because it would enable me to be close to him, so couldn't that be her reason too? I saw Lucy as a rival who'd stepped into my shoes because I wasn't there when Gil needed me and the combination of envy and guilt blinded me to reality to the point where I was stunned by Lucy's enthusiastic reaction when I 'confronted' her with the assertion that Gil should be socialising more and getting outside the confines of Cottonwood House and its grounds more often and that he should be doing at least some of it without her constant presence. Lucy's immediate suggestion that Brass and I learn how to deal with Gil taking a tumble suited me too, it allowed me to get stuck in and do something straight away, an instant achievement to go with my success at finally making my feelings about Gil's treatment known, even if they did happen to match what my 'nemesis' already had in mind.

Now I know that we're both aiming at the same target I'm getting along with Lucy better, but there's been a down side too. Since I've been trying to improve my communication with Gil I've come to better appreciate what Gil gets from working with Lucy, she's not just caring for his physical needs and certainly not just some stand in who has had to do these things because I wasn't there to do them instead. This isn't a case of me learning a few lifting techniques and then persuading Gil to let me take over Lucy's role, there's a whole lot more to what she gives him than that and, sitting here right now, I'm not sure I'll ever be up to doing her job.

Gil is aware of my failings too, I suppose he observed most of them back when he was my supervisor; the knowledge definitely affects some of his choices and interactions with me now. For example; Lucy has been gradually introducing Gil to a whole toolbox of different techniques to help him communicate but, to avoid confusion, it's better if he uses the minimum possible number of those to deal with any specific situation. Gil takes the lead on picking how he'd like to work and the techniques he selects vary according to how his concentration is at the time, what the conversation is about and who it's with. Usually with me he likes to use his synthesizer, even though it can often be the slowest of all the methods he uses and I'm pretty sure I know why. I don't know if it's just my lack of patience or if my mind can't help trying to solve a puzzle, but whenever Gil uses a visual image or prewritten cards I find it almost impossible not to 'help' by looking at the materials he's gathered in front of him and trying to deduce what he might be trying to say. Some guess work can be necessary of course, but throwing in too many suggestions can just leave Gil flustered and, as he often pointed out when he was my CSI supervisor, I do have a tendency to interpret evidence to suit what I want the answers to be. Lucy has pulled me up a few times herself for not stopping and taking the time to really 'listen' to what Gil wants to say before I try to confirm that I've understood and putting my own words into his mouth instead. After a while I think Gil gave up and resorted to his computer because, unless I lean right over his shoulder to look, I don't get to know what he might be trying to say until he touches the 'speak' icon.

"_Shock...Pressure._"

As if on cue, Gil's artificial voice finally springs to life. Between the time it's taken Gil to reach this point and the depth of my reverie I actually have to check the sheet of paper that occupies the tabletop between us to remind myself what Gil is responding to. That is why the paper is there, although more for Gil's use than mine of course. It's not a cue sheet in that it started off completely blank, there's no helpful list of potentially useful words, but I have some thick marker pens at hand and, whenever I say a word that Gil thinks will be useful to him as a reminder or that he might want to use in his response he'll tap the table and I'll add the word to the sheet. At the moment the only two words are "ANGRY" and "BATHROOM". I made the mistake of starting the session asking about what had upset Gil earlier. It made sense to me to try and clear the air about that first, both because I really want to know what upset him and because he's been on edge ever since his outburst, in spite of napping for a while afterwards to give his medications time to work. Even ordering our food seemed to be a cause of anxiety with Gil looking at me uncertainly before pointing at one of the meat dishes on the menu I'd given him. I'd picked Mediterranean food so that there were plenty of dishes that Gil could eat with his fingers instead of wielding a fork and so there would be a good combination of both vegetarian and non-vegetarian food. I actually had to remind Gil that I've never objected to him ordering cooked meat before and tell him that if I'm prepared to buy meat based food for Bru...Hank then I'm hardly going to object to ordering it for Gil. I did briefly consider buying vegetarian dog food, but decided I didn't want to force Hank completely away from his natural diet; you only have to look at a dog's teeth to see they're carnivores. Gil's cutely uneven teeth say he's an omnivore like all humans evolved to be and I don't force my choices on other people, so I told him once again that I'm happy for him to have meat, provided I'm not expected to handle the raw stuff.

Anyway, Gil finally seemed to relax a little while we were eating and when my dog, Bruno; who seems to have somehow become Gil's dog, Hank, over the last few hours; happily pranced back through from the kitchen, where he'd been left to have his own food instead of begging for ours, and over to his new friend the two of them greeted each other with great affection. All the same I wanted to clear the air properly before we moved deeper into our conversation, so I asked what the problem was. Unfortunately it turned out not to be an easy answer for Gil to give.

"I wanted it to be a surprise, Gil, but a pleasant one, and I'm really sorry if it didn't work out that way. And I certainly didn't want you to feel pressurized; I'm not even sure why you're seeing it that way.

"When Jim gave me the cheque you had him cut for such a large amount I asked him what it was meant for. He told me you'd used your computer to say '_home'_, so I used the money to make this a home for you."

Gil tapped the table hard each time I said the word 'home' and looks agitated and upset. Did I get it wrong? Did I misinterpret his word, or is he misinterpreting mine? I write "HOME" on the paper and ask if the problem is something to do with that. He nods so I try to explain my thinking more thoroughly.

"Gil, I didn't forget that you told me that you intend Cottonwood House to be your permanent home, but I wanted my home to be somewhere you could come to and feel relaxed and your generosity meant that I could do that even better than I'd first hoped. I know that the bathroom really upset you and I don't understand why. I had the work done so that you could manage without Lucy needing to be here and you could both get a break. If my hopes went any further it was that maybe you'd gain some confidence and perhaps feel able to try a hotel with disabled facilities in the future. I just don't want you to feel you're going to have to be in the same accommodation every night for the rest of your life.

"Maybe it's selfish of me to want this place to be a second home for you, Gil, but I hope that means I'm giving you more options, not denying you your choices." I move my head forwards so that Gil can't avoid looking me in the eye. "Is that OK?"

I can't analyse every emotion that is crossing Gil's face right now, I can't even count them, there seem to be so many and often one conflicts another. I'm not surprised when he turns his face away and stares at the table, resting his forehead in his left hand. I wait, I've learned now that Gil needs time to think about how he feels and what he wants to say before he even starts to tackle the practicalities of how to express himself. Lucy explained it to me as a side effect of his injuries, but my knowledge of what he was like long before he was hurt lets me see it as an exaggeration of the struggle Gil has always had with his emotions, something that I wasn't always patient with in the past, but which I intend to work doubly hard at accepting now.

A deep breath and a sigh can be heard before Gil's head comes back up and he nods, as much to himself as to me. He reaches out his good hand; "_OK. Thank you._" A couple of touches later, "_sorry_" follows.

Why is he apologising? I need to find a way to ask that will let Gil answer without having to start with the voice software all over again.

"Sorry you got angry?" I ask first, lifting my right hand in a fist, "or sorry that you misunderstood my intentions?" I continue, this time raising my left hand, palm out, to represent the second option. Gil's eyes flick quickly from one of my hands to the other a few times, his way of saying both suggestions are true, but then he looks at a point halfway between my hands before flicking his gaze downwards, something that translates as 'neither' or 'something else'.

"So lots of reasons, huh?"

Gil sighs and nods. I desperately want to reach out and hug him and I know that it's something he accepts quite readily these days, but now he's turning back to his computer, maybe because he wants to try and explain what else he feels he should be sorry about.

"_Pick word bad,_" is what eventually emerges from the machine's speaker. Gil points at where I've written HOME. "_Sorry."_

"You didn't mean 'home'?"

Gil shakes his head and his face screws up, deepening the wrinkles there, both old ones and new, as he desperately struggles to find a way to express his real intent. It 's almost physically painful to me to see him so bereft of words and that, together with the knowledge that there will be many other battles tonight in Gil's war with his communication disability, which makes me decide to put an end to this particular fight.

I touch Gil's arm before he can turn back to his machine; "Gil," I say, "even if 'home' wasn't quite the right word, I take it you meant for me to have the money to use for something to do with where I was going to live?"

Gil confirms this with a nod, his blue eyes looking sad and almost lonely, as if he feels shut off from me and maybe the whole world by his disability, are fixed on my face.

"OK, so as far as you've been able to tell, have I paid for anything that you did mean that money to be used for?"

To my relief the affirmative comes without hesitation.

"Alright, well, whatever you had in mind, let's assume that that's what I spent the money you gave me on. That means I didn't have to use my own money for that purpose, therefore I had some extra to spend on whatever I wanted, yes?" Gil has to agree. Although he still looks sad there's just the tiniest glint in his eye that shows he knows where I'm going with this. He nods his head.

"Well I chose to spend the freed up money on making this place convenient and comfortable for you." I take Gil's uninjured hand in mine, even though I know only one can feel me and grip back. "I hope you know that that is what I would have tried to do anyway; with or without the money you gave me."

Gil nods. His expression still isn't entirely happy though. I lift his uninjured hand and shake it a little, trying to lighten his mood.

"Look, maybe you still feel I haven't really understood your intentions properly, but that's never stopped us being friends before has it?" Gil lifts an eyebrow and I'm reminded that it has led to a few good arguments even if our friendship did survive – eventually. I grin to acknowledge his unspoken reminder but carry on anyway. "So unless there's something else that's been making you so uncomfortable around me today maybe we can move onto a different subject."

While I'm finishing speaking, Gil pulls his hand out of my grasp. Have I upset him again somehow? He's using the touch screen of his computer again, clearly he has something more to say, perhaps that will explain why he didn't want to hold my hand any more.

Press, press, press, I watch as Gil travels through the menus. Oh no, suddenly it dawns on me, Gil isn't necessarily angry with me, it's just that while I was holding his hand he couldn't use his voice synthesiser, I may as well have gagged him.

Gil looks up as if he's been listening to my thoughts; smiling gently he reaches out and gently pats my hand before going back to the screen. I want to keep that comforting physical contact so I reach out and gently rub his back while he works. Gil smiles at me when he realises what I'm doing, but his look becomes serious again just before he hits 'speak' on his machine.

"_Mad. Scare you._"

That's not quite what I expected to hear, but not completely unexpected either. Gil has always thought that he should be able to keep a tight rein on his so called 'negative' emotions.

"I was warned that your temper isn't completely under control Gil, just because today was the first time I experienced it doesn't mean I was freaked out."

He shakes his head, that isn't what he meant.

"_Your Father_."

My Father? I must look confused, Gil points at where 'ANGRY' is written on the paper sheet.

"You think getting angry makes you like my Father?"

Gil nods and, at my look of incredulity, curls his lip into a snarl and makes punching motions with his left fist, spoiling the effect slightly when the movement aggravates his bruised shoulder, making him wince. Clearly he considers his tantrum an outburst of violence comparable to those of my Father before Mom was driven to murder him. I almost laugh at the thought, but I'm stopped by the look on Gil's face which is so full of concern that it's almost fearful.

"Let me ask you a couple of questions Gil," I say gently, "don't worry, they won't need complicated answers."

Gil indicates his acceptance, but the fear is still there so I resume my gentle rubbing of his back to try and defuse his anxiety.

"First, did you choose to let your anger get the better of you today?"

Gil shakes his head, of course he didn't.

"OK then, second question; are you doing the best you can to control your anger?"

I watch Gil blink once slowly to signal 'yes' even though I already knew the answer to that one, Lucy told me about Gil's anger management efforts the very first time I met her.

"And when you realised that you couldn't control it this time, did you just let go, or did you do as much as you possibly could to contain any damage?"

Gil looks unsure, but I point out that he got himself away from me and Hank as fast as he could, tried to keep us out by closing the door behind him and took all his anger out on soft furnishings. Nothing got broken and the only injuries that occurred were to Gil himself. Even when my Father didn't try to physically hurt someone something always got broken. If it had been him in Gil's place I'd probably be in the ER right now and at the very least I'd need to replace the spare room's TV and probably the door would have a large hole through it. Gil has to admit that, however out of control he felt he was still making positive decisions to control his temper.

He reaches towards his speech synthesizer again but this time I deliberately stop him by taking his good hand and holding it tightly. He squeezes back and I'm reminded of the day he came to my apartment and got me to open up about my family background. The memory gives me an idea of how to continue reassuring the man I love.

"Gil, apart from you, nearly everyone who I've ever had to tell about my home life as a child has either asked if my Father was a drinker or, worse still, just assumed it. It's one of the reasons I stopped talking about those things, because it always felt like they were looking for an excuse for him, that it wasn't him doing what he did, it was the drink.

"Dad was not an alcoholic. Sure there were some nights when he did go out and get drunk and yes, the beatings were worse when he'd given up the small amount of self control that he did have; but there were also days when he hadn't touched a drop and still managed to find a reason to lash out at one or all of us. He never made the choice to get out of the house while he calmed down or to take things out on inanimate objects, he just kicked out at whatever was in the way. Even if he had been an addict he would have had the choice to seek help to stop him hurting his family, but I doubt he would have because he never chose to acknowledge that anything he did might be wrong."

Gil is looking at me with the same pained sympathy he showed on the day I first told him about what happened all those years ago; sympathy, but not pity. He was silent that day too, for different reasons of course, just letting me know he was listening without judging, wanting to hear exactly as much as I wanted to tell him nothing more, nothing less. I loved him for it then and I love him for it now.

"Gil, you didn't choose what happened to you, never wanted to give up control of your feelings or actions, but every choice that you do have, every decision that you can make, you choose to fight the results of your injuries."

Releasing Gil's left hand at last I cup his cheek gently and look into his eyes.

"It's all about choices, Gil, and your choices have been very different from my Father's. Please don't ever compare yourself to him again. I know I don't and I never will unless your choices change."

Gil looks at me steadily for a moment and then turns back to his computer.

"_Your Mother."_

I was hoping that Gil would be satisfied with my dismissal of the idea that he in any way resembles my father, but it seems that he's not ready to let go yet. Perhaps he's right; if we're going to deal properly with our relationship maybe it's necessary to tackle the issue of my parents.

Maybe it's also making me realise that there's been a change in me over the last couple of years because, instead of deflecting the conversation elsewhere, I'm going to indulge Gil.

"My Mom had choices too, although I've come to appreciate that she had fewer options than my Father did, particularly when it was nearing the end.

"We've both seen it as CSIs Gil, even in this new century, the abused partner, male or female, who is so desperate not to admit that they fell in love with the wrong person, so convinced the problem lies with them, or so desperate not to split up their family that, by the time they realise that their partner will never change, they're already running out of options, they've lost touch with the friends or family they could once have turned to and have lost access to any money or income of their own.

"Mom reached that situation in the 1970s which must have made it even harder to see a way out. She worked running the business with Dad so she had no way of putting away any money and she may have genuinely believed that my brother and I were better off in a 'proper' family, single parents were still so stigmatised then. She tried living according to her Hippie beliefs for a while, 'dropping out' of the life she was caught up in, but that just left her even more dependent on my Father for money and 'supplies'.

"I've come to realise that she truly believed, at least in the few short minutes when the knife was in her hand, that killing my Father was her only option other than the loss of the lives of herself and the rest of her family."

Gil reaches out with his good arm and pulls me to his chest, a safe place to be as the images of that terrible time spring into life for me once more. Hank, who had been drowsing under the table, tries to join in as well, attempting to clamber onto my lap, even though he's way too big to fit.

My attempts to convince the dog that I'm fine just so he'll quit trying to get up while Gil tries to stop the table being knocked over by Hank's efforts certainly break the sombre mood until I am crying tears of laughter instead of grief and Hank gives up his attempted ascent in favour of running madly around the room.

"I think I'd better put Hank in the yard for a while, he can take some of that energy out on one of my old running shoes. Then we can talk in peace for a while before I have to take the D.O.G. for his R.U.N. in the P.A.R.K."

Gil nods, but I see some uncertainty in his eyes, perhaps he's worried about being left alone while I take Hank out.

"You could join us if you like, it's pretty level going all the way there."

Gil shakes his head at that suggestion and then frowns and points at Hank before making walking movements with his fingers along his leg. He's asking if Hank needs to be walked. Didn't he get what I just said? Maybe he didn't hear me properly? But when I helped him transfer from the couch he chose to sit at that end of the table so he'd have his good ear towards me, even though that means I'm next to his injured shoulder and hand, so why'd he miss half of what I said?

Finally it dawns on me, Gil heard me fine, but he just couldn't make out what I was _spelling_. I'd assumed that because Gil can read he can spell too, but obviously hearing one letter at a time is different from seeing the whole thing printed on a page, so my efforts to avoid Hank getting excited all over again have ended up confusing Gil as much as the dog.

"It's OK, Gil, he's used to going out later; I've found it helps both of us settle for the night. I was thinking you might be glad of a break from us both by then, but if you did want to come I could tire him out by throwing his... throwing something for him to chase instead of actually ru..." The dog's ears prick up. "Doing what we'd normally do." I hastily correct myself. It's not exactly easy to get one half of my audience to understand me while trying to make sure the other half doesn't.

Gil nods and, as I lead Hank out of the room, he turns back to his computer. By the time I get back, leaving Hank settled with his favourite old shoe and a brand new rawhide chew, Gil is sitting ready and waiting to continue. I sit down and Gil, his expression grave again, presses the screen once more.

"_Your Mother_", he repeats.

What else does Gil want me to say? He's always been so good about letting me decide how much or, more usually, how little I want to say on the subject of my history.

"_Murder gene_."

Wow, Gil has been busy while I was out of the room; those aren't exactly words that will be in the most commonly accessed parts of the software's dictionary. Perhaps he paid extra for the special crime-enthusiast's add-on.

"You're afraid that if you get angry enough you'll switch on some genetic marker I've got and I'll decide to finish you off?"

In spite of his sombre demeanour Gil breaks into a grin at the suggestion. It disappears almost as fast as it arrived and then he points at himself, shaking his head before pointing at me and raising one eyebrow.

"You don't think that but you're concerned that I might? I guess I did ask you about that once, didn't I? And that was before they actually did find some genes that might influence violent tendencies. Well, I guess I'd be just as likely to have inherited one of those from my Father as from Mom, but even if I had got it from one or both of them I'm sure it would have manifested long before now.

"But it's back to the choice thing isn't it Gil? Even those with the gene still have the choice to resist its effects and, unlike my Father, you are neither cruel nor controlling nor manipulative; I know you'll never put me in a situation where I would feel trapped with no way out other than a violent one."

Gil taps the table when I say the word 'trapped' and, after I've written it down, he repeats the 'me, no, you maybe' routine, then gestures at himself and his wheelchair where it is currently parked near the couch. Then he points at 'TRAPPED' on the paper.

It takes a moment to try and figure out his meaning and I'm hesitant when I suggest what I think he wanted to say.

"You think I'll trap myself because I won't let myself leave you now that you're disabled?

Gil keeps nodding while I speak, indicating I'm on the right track. I guess he's often felt that I've stuck with a case or cause in the past because I've empathised too much with a victim. Does he think I'd be the same with him? If I am, it's not because of empathy, it's because I love this man, whether he's what others would call 'whole' or not. All the same, even if the situation feels different to me, I know that Gil has always been concerned about my options becoming limited if I have a relationship with him, even before this happened he fretted about affecting my career progress or the effects of him being more than a decade older than me. I do need to make an effort to ease his concerns rather than denying their validity like I've sometimes done in the past.

"OK," I say, letting out a deep breath, "how about I promise you a couple of things?

"First, I'll promise you that murder will be right at the bottom of my list of things I'll do to you if you upset me in the future," I grin just in case Gil doesn't realise that that's a joke, before adding more seriously, "and I swear that, if ever I find you've chosen the easy option and struck out at me instead of fighting to control your temper – and I do mean making a choice and not because you tried but failed because you were tired or ill – I will remove myself from your life permanently."

I sigh again, I hate sounding so brutal, but I'm only making Gil aware of a promise that I made to myself years ago, before I even started doing any serious dating, about what I'd do if I ever found myself in a violent relationship.

"It isn't something I'd ever expect or want to do, believe me; I'm just stating what I'm prepared to do, for both our sakes."

Looking at my watch I realise just how long it's taken us to get to this point. Even after the interlude caused by Hank's reaction to my distress I'm ready to take a break and thirsty as well. I establish that Gil would like some water and, on the way to fetch some from the kitchen I unthinkingly pause to drop a kiss on top of Gil's head and whisper, "I love you".

"_Don't love me,"_ is the first thing I hear when I get back.

The words are stark and, thanks to the voice synthesizer, flat and without emotion. I'm not even sure if they're a command or an observation.

"Yes I do Gil, I've loved you for years and the more I analyse my feelings about what's happened to you, to both of us, the more certain of that I become."

He shakes his head and tries again.

"_Gil Grissom love. '_Gu-il Gu-rissom' _not._" While he was using his own halting voice he also used the same sweeping gesture along his body that he often uses to indicate his changed physical state. Does he really think I'm so shallow that I'd let his disabilities change how I feel about him?

"When have I ever let myself be swayed by what's on the surface Gil?" I'd have given up on him long ago if I had. "You're still the Gil Grissom I remember inside, where it really matters."

Gil sighs and I glimpse a haunted look in his eyes before he turns back to the computer screen. His brow furrows as he tries to work out how to respond.

"I hope you're not trying to come up with another reason why I should abandon you, because it would be a waste of time." My frustration finally gets the better of my resolve to be patient.

"Sa-Ra." Gil's own annoyance produces the best attempt at saying my name that he's managed yet, if he didn't look so angry I'd point it out. Gil really seems to be battling to control himself. He tries the computer again.

_Can't love, don't know._ Just as I'm about to ask what I don't know Gil tries to indicate himself by punching himself on the sternum, but hits his right hand where it's slung across his chest instead. He should grimace in pain, but he looks down at his chest in mild surprise instead, it seems he'd forgotten his hand was even there. It's sad to see, but he's not hurt and the conversation we're having is more important right now.

"You're saying I don't know you?" Gil nods. "You once told me I know you better than yourself sometimes." And that was due to those little glimpses I was allowed to see in his more relaxed moments at home, surely no-one has been allowed that close since I left? That's with the possible exception of Lucy, of course.

Now Gil is pointing at himself and shaking his head. Next he points at me with a questioning look and a shrug.

"You don't think so but I might?" That's how I've been translating similar movements up until now, but this time it doesn't make sense. Did that shrug alter their meaning? Gil's repeating himself now, I need to watch carefully and pick up on every clue to work out his meaning.

This time, after Gil points at himself, he taps himself on the forehead before shaking his head.

"You don't know you?" Gil confirms I'm right and then continues by gently touching my forehead, pointing at himself and then shrugging again, more expressively this time.

Me know you how? Would probably be the literal translation, so I guess what he actually means might be something like; "You don't know yourself anymore, so how can I?"

Gil sits back with a very positive nod when I say that, behaving like he's just won some logical argument definitively and completely. I can't help laughing a little when, after trying to convince me of how much he has changed, Gil should revert to such familiar behaviour.

Gil looks hurt by my reaction.

"You really don't recognise yourself anymore?" The thought that Gil really does feel that alienated from his own personality has a sobering effect on me.

Gil shakes his head gloomily.

"Well I certainly do and so do the rest of the old team, I know because they've all told me so." I reach my arm around Gil pulling him towards me and, instinctively, he leans his head on my shoulder in response. I decide that now probably isn't the time to tell him that these sudden swaps between him behaving like an independent adult and this new, affection seeking side are a very endearing part of his 'new' personality, the last thing I want to do his highlight something that would he would consider a major, and embarrassing, change to his nature. I also don't want him to pull away from me right now. Instead I lightly caress his hair for a moment. These days it's long enough to curl at the sides as well as on top, the Cottonwood House hairdresser, who also helps Gil keep his beard under control, is an expert on hiding the physical after effects of head injuries and changed Gil's style a little to hide the scarring that lies above and behind Gil's left ear.

"Sure, there have been changes, but nothing that I've observed so far makes me think any less of you," I whisper into his good ear, "let alone changes the way I feel."

Gil makes one of his rare vocalisations at this point, a sort of grumbling, dissenting moan.

"Hush now, let me finish. I appreciate that you want me to take more time to understand what difference the changes in both of us will make to our relationship, and that you need some time to think about that as well. While that's happening I'll try to love and care for you as a friend instead of as a partner, but don't expect me to stop loving you and doing my best to look after you, because I can't just turn those emotions off." And, after the way Gil reacted while I was talking about my parents, I don't think he can do that now either – if he ever could.

Gil lifts his head from my shoulder now. He seems to understand what I've been saying, but there's something that's still making him unhappy. I decide to carry on talking and really push my point home.

"You've been such huge positive influence on my life, I wouldn't be who I am today without your help. Now I want to return the favour and be here for you, Gil, giving you as much help as you need. You're family to me now, even if there's no paperwork or blood connection to prove it. If you were my cousin, brother, uncle or husband you wouldn't expect me to walk away. Please don't punish me for wanting to sort myself out before you put a ring on my finger instead of after."

Gil keeps shaking his head while I talk and now he returns to his computer.

"_Don't need."_

"You must need to be helped Gil, otherwise Lucy would be out of job."

"_Don't need you."_

"Because you have Lucy, I know, but I kind of hoped you'd need me too."

"_Don't need."_

That hurts, I really want a role in Gil's life, but he's rejecting all my offers to be a real part of it. I won't let him see me cry though, even though I'm close. I'm good at not letting people see my weaknesses. I stare at my hands for a few moments, trying to think of a way to shrug off the huge weight of disappointment that is washing over me so that I can go through with the rest of Gil's stay. Lost in my unhappiness I start to drift and then I feel a nudge from my left, followed by, "_want"_.

I look sharply at Gil, who managed to bump me with his elbow in spite of the sling restricting his right arm.

"You don't need my help, but you want it?

_"Caretaker no. You."_

"It's my help you're objecting to, not me?"

Gil nods and honours me with a smile; I've got it.

"You don't want my help at all?

_"Some._" There's a pause as he hunts down the next word he needs. At least I now know that he's not completely averse to accepting my assistance. I didn't want to remind him I had to help him up off the floor earlier; I don't think he'd really have preferred to stay there until Lucy could arrive.

_"Same."_ Gil frowns and shakes his head, clearly not having got the word he really wanted. Surprisingly, instead of turning back to the screen he grabs the pen I'd put on the table to use myself and, with great concentration, uses it in his left hand to draw two slightly wonky parallel horizontal lines.

I'm ashamed to say that it's only when I put those marks together with his not quite right "_same_" that I realise he's written a math symbol.

"Equals?"

Gil nods and points back and forth between us.

You want it to be more equal than just me helping you?" I wonder how he sees himself helping me.

Clearly by mindreading on occasion; it seems that Gil has already considered the answer to my unspoken question. He points at his mouth and shakes his head.

"You can't talk?"

Nod, followed by him pointing to his good ear and nodding again.

"But you can hear."

He nods again before pointing at my mouth this time and then his ear again.

"You want me to talk to you? That's what we're doing isn't it?"

Gil utters a groan of frustration and glares at me over his glasses.

"_More."_

"I'm already trying to cover all the big stuff," I defend myself; Gil taps the table when I say 'big'. "I'm doing my best to remember to tell you everything that's important." Gil indicates that he wants 'important' added to the paper too. I write down both words while he's finding something on his computer again.

"_Everything._" Gil points at 'BIG' and then indicates something tiny between his finger and thumb. Next he taps 'IMPORTANT' before picking up my pen and clumsily drawing an 'X' over the word.

"Unimportant?" I ask him and he nods that I'm correct. Finally Gil draws a wobbly smiley face and then points at 'ANGRY', the word that's been up there since the beginning of our session.

"OK," I take a deep breath, "you want me to talk to you about everything, big and small, important and unimportant, the stuff that makes me happy and the stuff that makes me mad?"

I'm treated to a big bearded grin and Gil drops the pen he's been holding awkwardly in his 'wrong' hand with a satisfied plonk. He points at me again and then makes a talking gesture with his hand.

"I talk?"

He gives me a nod, and then Gil points at first himself and then his right ear.

"You listen?"

Gil's eyes say 'yes' and then his mouth says "'Ug."

"Any hug from you sounds good to me, but..."

Gil's face falls and I stop my objection before it goes any further. He looks so miserable; would it really hurt me to share a little more, however unnatural it feels to me? There's desperation in his expression as well, he really wants me to try and do this, just like he did when I was struggling with burnout and the after effects of my encounter with Natalie. It hits me now, suddenly and almost like a bullet to the chest; how different things might be right now if I'd only opened up to him then, instead of disappearing the way I did. I could have saved him so much heartbreak and, if that small change in history hadn't saved him from being attacked altogether, at least I would have been here for him right from the start and we'd have already gone through all these changes together instead of struggling to find a balance between us now.

I pick up Gil's hand and bring it to my lips, gently kissing his fingers.

"I'm sorry Gil, you're right; I have to learn not to cut you out. Even if I tell myself it's to protect you I'd only be covering up my own problems with opening up and admitting I need help. I've always been pretty useless at that, haven't I?"

Gil smiles indulgently and nods before making a 'me too' sort of gesture.

"Yes, that's true," I grin, "but circumstances have forced you to learn to accept what other people have to offer, and the least I can do now is try to learn that lesson along with you. And yes, I will try and remember that it's not just about sharing the bad stuff, I guess I've always felt that I shouldn't talk about those things because why would anyone be interested in how I feel?"

Gil tilts his head at that and looks at me as steadily as his constantly moving head will allow.

"OK, you're interested, I get it, I get it!" I throw up my hands in mock surrender.

Gil laughs and I remember how good that sounds; maybe I can use that to help me learn to talk to him more, I can try and make him laugh at something at least once every time I see him. Between Gil's reduced inhibitions and Hank's antics it surely won't be too difficult.

"OK, so I'll do my best to let you in more and give you the chance to be there for me; but you need to accept that I want to be there for you and that it's not because of some misguided sense of loyalty or an over attachment to the past.

"I want us to have a future together, Gil, and I think that you do too, so shall we agree to slowly work towards that and take any problems as they come instead of trying to protect each other by giving up before anything has even gone wrong?"

I stop and wait, holding my breath, I hope I'm right in guessing that Gil wants a relationship with me in spite of all the efforts he's been making to put me off. Will he accept my deal?

Gil reaches out and offers me his left hand to shake. Suddenly words are unnecessary.


	10. Grissom's Ultimate Gamble

**Cottonwood House III**

**The Hand You're Dealt**

**Chapter 10**

**Grissom's Ultimate Gamble**

It's dark in my office and I'm half hidden in the shadows by the shelves where I keep my specimens when Sara walks in. She turns her head and says something to me, but I can't make out what it is, it sounds like I'm under water, my hearing must have dropped out again. Sara doesn't seem surprised at my lack of comprehension or response, just smiles in a way that could be sad, distant or just resigned. I guess we must be going through one of our rough patches, though I somehow can't remember what I did to alienate her this time and, as usual, I feel at a loss when it comes to breaking the ice that seems to form a wall between us.

I still haven't moved when Sara, having dropped the envelope she was carrying onto my in-tray, walks back past me and, bizarrely, plunges me into even deeper darkness by hitting the light switch on her way out of the office's door.

Stunned, I seem to hover in space for minutes on end, unable to move or make a sound as I contemplate what has just occurred. Then, just as I begin to wonder why it hasn't occurred to me to at least go and switch the light back on, even if going after Sara is more than I can manage right now, Catherine comes into the room. She smiles and greets me but again I can't make out what is being said. Catherine doesn't seem any more bothered at my lack of reply than Sara was, she just carries on and takes a seat at my desk, turning the lamp there on as she does. I try to move forward or make a noise in order to find out why she's here and why she's sitting on my side of the desk like it belongs to her, but again I can't persuade my mouth or limbs to co-operate. What's stopping me?

Now a tiny glint of light catches my eye, a reflection perhaps? It could be that I'm confused about where I'm standing; maybe I'm actually just outside my office on the other side of one of the glass walls. Still finding myself unable to move or speak I force my eyes to focus just in front of me and a ghostly image emerges. It seems to be me, at least the colour of the irises I'm looking at are a very familiar greyish blue, but that's where the recognition ends, not because my face has undergone some radical change but because, shockingly, there is no face surrounding those eyes at all, and the only grey curls visible behind them are the convoluted labyrinth that is the surface of a human brain. Suddenly what has happened hits me with sickening certainty, except I can't really be nauseous, because I'm not standing next to my shelf of specimens, I'm actually placed on it; the dulling of sound isn't caused by the return of my otosclerotic symptoms or even by actually being under water, but because I'm immersed in formalin; and I'm not looking at my reflection in a glass wall; because my brain, complete with attached optic nerve and eyeballs, is no longer inside my body but is floating in a large jar in which it has been placed to preserve it. A vague awareness of having been attacked in some way, a hospital room and devastating injury is at the back of my mind. Am I dead? My will has always been clear that I wanted my body to be left to science, but I thought that would mean I'd end up as a specimen on a body farm or being used as a learning tool for medical students, I certainly never thought I'd end up a display item in my own office; and certainly not that I'd still be fully aware when it happened. Catherine and Sara were probably only talking to my jar in the same way I have, when no-one was watching, uttered a brief 'good evening' to 'Miss Piggy' before starting work for the night, a black humoured conceit of life where patently there is not. Perhaps nobody realised that, after whatever it was exactly that happened to me, my eyes and at least some of my brain were the only things that continued to work? An even more important question is how can I let anyone know I'm in here? Like this I don't even have eyelids I can blink to try and gain attention. Am I destined to an eternity of this existence with only my thoughts and imaginary scenarios to distract and sustain me? How long before I go completely mad?

I can feel myself slipping towards panic, but the situation is absurd and, when I think about it, there's a growing sense of familiarity about all this. Slowly realisation dawns on me and I finally conclude that I'm having a nightmare. It's one that I've had more times than I care to count since I woke from my coma, although Sara has rarely featured until quite recently. To my relief, like any dream, once its nature becomes apparent the scenario starts to fall apart and my eyes, thankfully still fully protected by their lids, flicker open to the welcome darkness of my room.

Unfortunately, merely opening my eyes doesn't seem to immediately dispel my feelings of unease, in fact I'm still overwhelmed by a sense of foreboding, the only thing I can think of is that everything will be alright if I can just turn on the light and dispel both real and imagined darkness at once.

However, much as I flail about, I somehow can't raise myself up high enough to hit the light-switch above my head and I know I'm beginning to hyperventilate. Has my recovery been a dream? Am I still struggling against complete paralysis?

Those thoughts add to my increasing sense of panic. The blackness of the unlit room smothers me and my heart beats ever faster. But then, just as I'm starting to think that I'm heading for a heart attack, I realise something; the switch I've been trying to reach isn't there anymore, or rather it's me that isn't where that particular switch is, because the point I've been desperately reaching for is exactly where my bedroom light switch was in my old town house, somewhere I haven't stayed overnight for over two years now; and that's a major tell that I still haven't reached full consciousness. Although the anxiety I feel in these situations can sometimes be so great that I don't register what reaching in that direction means until it's too late, the realisation has come to me quicker this time and with the revelation I somehow get unstuck, remember that I am actually in Sara's guest room, find the lamp that is placed beside my bed and then get my un-co-operative right hand to somehow flop in a way that's enough to operate the switch on its base.

As welcome light forms a circle of safety around the lamp's base I collapse back on the bed, shaking and breathing heavily. I try to calm myself by going over the medical explanation for the feelings I have just experienced, ones that I found far more terrifying than the 'disembodied brain' episode that preceded it.

When we sleep there's a sort of safety device in our heads that prevents us from acting out our dreams. For some people this doesn't always cut in properly and, when it doesn't, that's when sleepwalking occurs. In other people it works too well and prevents them moving even while they're coming to full consciousness and often it's accompanied by feelings of fright, awareness of unknown 'presences' and sometimes pressure like something's sitting on the person's chest. In fact the similarities in descriptions mean that these episodes are often thought to be the real explanation for some reports of alien abduction. Even for those who don't think there is any extra terrestrial involvement there's a good reason why these half dreams are known as 'night terrors' and in my case, having experienced paralysis in my waking life, the memories evoked make the after effects even harder to dispel.

Although I did get bad dreams in the past I never experienced these truly frightening episodes before I suffered traumatic brain injury, but I have ever since and I know that they're more likely when I've had to take extra pain relief or been particularly tired before settling down, both of which apply today. I run a hand over my face, thinking about the situation logically has only helped a little and, tired as I may be, I know it will be at least an hour before I feel safe to settle again. Even without the remaining sense of dread I know that on the rare occasions when I have fallen back to sleep immediately it's often resulted in another night terror straight after the first.

My breathing has finally eased to the point that I can hear sounds from outside the bedroom door. I know that I can make pretty loud noises when I have night mares or terrors from the fact that Lucy sometimes gets to my bedside before I've roused myself enough to hit the call button to summon her, but I really hope that I'm hearing Hank rearranging himself in his bed in the hallway and I haven't woken Sara.

"Hank, stay!" I hear in an undertone, "if Gil's asleep I don't want you waking him by jumping on the bed. Now lie down!"

Well, I may not have wanted to disturb her, but I'm insanely relieved when, after a gentle tap on the door, Sara slides quietly into the room.

"Gil, are you OK?" she asks, once she's seen that I'm definitely not asleep.

I don't try to answer her question; I just point over her shoulder at the room's main light switch and then up at the pendant light hanging from the centre of the ceiling. Taking my hint, Sara flips the switch and floods the room with light, an action that reverses the one she performed earlier in my dream.

Unfortunately the light which has finally cast out the oppressive shadows has also revealed my trembling and probably ghost white appearance to Sara.

"Honey, are you OK? I thought I heard a yell and when I got into the hallway there was light shining under you door."

No, I'm not all right, I need a hug, but then Sara will think I'm... I stop myself, Sara and I made a deal about accepting the things we need from each other and, even if we hadn't now isn't the time to come over all independent and bull headed, Sara would see through me in a moment and feel hurt. I reach out my hand towards my friend and, when she steps closer to take it, pull her nearer the bed.

"'Ug?" The 'word' comes out even more plaintively than I thought it would. Sara smiles and then sits on the bed, bringing her legs up so that she's half sitting half lying beside me. She's wearing a tank top with pyjama bottoms and her feet are bare. Feeling her arms go around my own t-shirted torso I try to relax into her embrace, but it takes time and some gentle back rubbing before I finally stop shivering.

"Did you have a nightmare?"

I respond with a 'sort of' grimace.

"Would it be difficult to give me some idea what it was about?"

I nod sadly, in the days when I could talk I often resisted, not wanting to burden her with my worries and now that I've finally realised that I have to offer my trust to the same level I want her to give me hers I am, literally, lost for words.

"Well, I know it must have been a bad one, I've never known you react this badly or take as long to recover."

I nod my confirmation of Sara's statement. Either the nightmare or the night terror would have been bad enough, to have one immediately follow the other was almost unbearable. I wrap my arms tighter around Sara and rest my forehead in the angle between Sara's neck and her shoulder like a young child might, demonstrating both my need and my gratitude for her presence right now.

"I love you Gil and I'll be here for you as long and as much as you want me to be."

I know you are Sara, and I think you've finally accepted that I need to be here for you as well. Taking a deep breath I lift my head and gaze into Sara's face, aware that the last sensations of panic are leaving me. Suddenly an idea leaps into my head. It's a risky one and even before it's completely formed I can feel negative thoughts starting to push away the notion. This time, though, I'm determined not to listen; I'm _supposed_ to be more impulsive now, to let my emotions overcome me more easily and more often. Today has been a good day as far as Sara and I are concerned, nightmares or not, and I want to do something to mark it.

"Gil, are you OK?" Sara asks, looking concerned.

I nod and then point at my overnight bag.

"You want your stuff?"

I nod again and Sara reaches out and lifts it over so it's on the bed beside me. Then she helps me sit up, shoving a few pillows behind my back to keep me in place. My fingers run over the outside pockets of the bag and I'm relieved when I locate the one I want and to find that its contents are still there. One-handed I tug open the zipper and pull out a small, creased, faded, but still intact, padded envelope.

Looking at it briefly my heart climbs its way up into my throat before I force myself to complete my intention and pass it over to Sara.

"For me?"

I tap the envelope where it says 'Ms S. Sidle'. The words are written about a third of the way from the top so there's plenty of room for an address but none has ever been added.

"You want me to open this?"

She's asking me if I'm sure about her having whatever's in there and, actually I'm not, but I nod my head anyway, no point going back now.

Sara pulls on the end of the thin red strip and the packet is open, as simple as that. Over two years ago I sealed it, wanting, then as now, to be sure that I wouldn't keep second guessing my decisions. When I did that I didn't expect it to be so long before Sara saw the contents. I also wasn't expecting to be able to witness her reaction when she did. Now I will, I just hope Sara doesn't notice that I'm trembling again, filled with a whole new sense of anxious anticipation.

Intent on discovering what it is that I've handed her Sara doesn't even glance at me while I watch her slender fingers reach inside the envelope and extract its contents. She removes a folded square of paper held together by a rubber band that has become so desiccated that it crumbles as soon as Sara tries to slip her finger underneath to take it off.

Sara shoots me a puzzled glance when that happens and her movement causes the thing that was tucked inside the paper, a small item encased in bubble wrap, to fall out onto the duvet. Instinctively I reach out to grab it with my right hand but all I end up doing is covering the object a fraction of a second before Sara can scoop it up.

"You want me to look at this first?" Sara indicates the paper still in her hand. I nod, it's not what was really in my head when I went to grab the smaller packet, that was more an urge to hide the most important content of the envelope, a last minute panicked attempt to hold back the force I've just unleashed, but it does make sense for Sara to examine the paper first.

Unfolding the sheet Sara glances at it and quickly turns to look me in the face.

"This is your handwriting."

Yes, it is, I nod; and yes, that does mean I prepared this envelope and its contents before I had my head smashed into with a tyre iron; mentally I follow the reasoning that must be going on in Sara's head, although I doubt she thinks of what happened to me in quite such stark terms. We both look down at the paper that Sara is carefully smoothing out and I wonder if seeing the fluent script makes Sara feel as sad as I do, knowing that neither my words nor my handwriting will ever flow so easily again.

Sara's finger actually seems to caress the written words, then pauses briefly below the line where I wrote the date, less than two weeks after she walked out of my life, if I remember correctly, and nearly two and a half years ago now. Before she can begin to read the body of the text I touch her arm gently to get her attention then use a few gestures to try and explain what I want.

"You'd like me to read this aloud?"

I confirm her interpretation of my signals, I wrote the letter so long ago that I need to hear it again to be sure I remember the contents correctly and so I can try and intervene if I've got it wrong and the words aren't as appropriate as I hope. I also want to see Sara's reactions and to know which of my words she's responding to. Sara looks down again, ready to begin and I find myself automatically reaching for a spare cushion, hugging it to my chest for comfort.

"'Dearest Sara,'" she starts to read and I recall that at the time I didn't even dare insert the word 'My' before that salutation.

"'I'm writing this letter in the hope that it won't be long before you settle somewhere for long enough to have a reliable postal address and feel able to trust me with it, knowing that I have promised only to come to you when you tell me you are ready.'"

Sara pauses and looks at me, "I'm sorry Gil, I never meant you to feel that I didn't trust you. It sounds like a cliché, but the only person I didn't trust right then was me. I guess I was right in that too; I was making some really stupid decisions at the time wasn't I? And that meant I lost the support you were offering and that I wasn't there when you needed me. That's something I'm always going to regret, now that I understand how stupid I was being."

All I can do is shake my head, regret is an emotion of the past, it needs to be set aside in order to move on, but even if I had a way to explain that to Sara it's something that she really needs to learn for herself, just like I had to in order to deal with what happened to me. At least from what I've learned about her time away she's well on her way to making the life changes she needs to if we're going to make a success of this. Sara smiles at me softly before bowing her head over my letter once more.

"'I know that I probably shouldn't entrust something as valuable as the enclosed to the regular mail service,'" she reads, "'but I want you to have this as soon as possible, without scaring you by having unexpected couriers knocking at your door, so I have to hope that making the package as inconspicuous as possible will act as some kind of security. I guess the fact that I'm going to be carrying around with me everywhere until I have a chance to pass it on to you won't do any harm as far as that's concerned.'"

Sara picks up the empty envelope in her free hand, "well, I guess that worked, this looks as though you've had it with you pretty much ever since you wrote it," she jokes. Sara scans my face and, looking back at hers, I can almost see the moment when she realises that is exactly what has happened. The packet became almost like a talisman in the weeks immediately after Sara left and was kept with my other property at the hospital because I had it with me when I was admitted. Fortunately Catherine was her usual thorough self and checked all the pockets before she consigned my ruined court suit to the trash. While she had no way of getting any information out of me about the package's contents she did ask if it was anything important and, from the certainty of my blinked 'yes' she made sure it was kept safely in the top drawer of my bedside locker until the contents of that were packed and then moved with me to Cottonwood House. It's lived in the outer pocket of the bag that always hangs from the handles of my wheelchair since the day I took delivery of both chair and bag, even once I'd stopped believing that I'd ever see Sara again. Even though she can't read the details from my expression the truth of what I said in the letter is obvious and Sara's face becomes more solemn. "What would matter so much to you that you'd carry it like that," she muses aloud, "yet you were prepared to drop it in a mail box as soon as you had an address where it would reach me?"

All I can do is smile and tap the letter gently, all will be revealed, she just has to continue reading.

"'Please understand that I'm not trying to pressurise you with the nature of what I'm sending you, it's just that, when we never managed to find time to go shopping together, I took the risk and ordered it before you left and, now that it's ready, I'd rather it was in your hands than mine.'"

The light is starting to dawn for Sara, I can see it in her face, but there was also a wince when the letter referred to our failed attempts to go shopping or spend much quality time of any sort together in those few weeks before Sara finally left. I remember being very confused at the time, unsure if things were simply difficult because we were trying to adjust to being on different shifts and had less free time when we were both awake to schedule any outings, or if Sara was having second thoughts about marrying me and was trying to back away from that, or even away from our relationship altogether. By the time I'd overcome my lack of instinct where other's thoughts and feelings are concerned and figured out that Sara might actually be getting seriously depressed and tried to do something about it by attempting to get her to talk to me and by ordering the gift that now lies beneath my right hand, it was already too late and Sara was in the process of leaving.

Now that Sara has pretty much guessed what's coming next she dives back in and hurries to read aloud the next paragraph.

"'I realise that you have a lot to think about right now, so I want you to know that the ring comes without any commitment, on your side at least, but I do hope you'll keep it and, better still, wear it so that you will always be aware that my thoughts and heart go with you, wherever you are. The only thing that I ask is that you wear it on your right hand or on a chain around your neck and then, if and when the time comes, you'll allow me the honour of placing it on your left ring finger.'"

Sara looks stunned, even though she almost certainly knew what was coming. Moving the cushion that I'm using like armour so I can keep it in place with my right arm, I use my left hand to push the small bubble wrap square across the duvet towards Sara. There's more of the letter that she still needs to read, but she may as well see the ring now, it's too late to go back and any further suspense would be without benefit.

It's hardly the way I saw it, once I'd got over the shock of suggesting to Sara that marriage should be our next step. I knew it had hardly been a romantic moment, no fancy words, no bended knee and me almost as speechless as Sara until that bee gave us something else to concentrate on, so I'd wanted the presentation of the ring to be more traditional, even if we'd chosen the ring together I'd planned on a good meal at a place where we could dress up and repeating my request for Sara's hand while ignoring the complaints that I'd inevitably getting from my ageing knees as they endured a cold, hard, floor. Yet, here we are; both in our nightwear, the ring long ago divested of its velvet box in favour of less conspicuous packaging material and I've spent enough time on the floor today not to want to repeat the exercise, even if Sara has declared my hand sufficiently recovered for me not to need the sling anymore. I do the most chivalrous thing I can instead and, while Sara picks away at the tape sealing the plastic wrapping I rearrange the duvet so that it covers Sara's bare feet which must be getting a little chilly by now. The actions required doing that help to cover my concern that Sara will hate my taste in jewellery; we didn't even get around to discussing stones or metals, let alone specific designs, so I was pretty much making a stab in the dark when I made my selection.

A gasp from Sara brings my head up quickly. At least the expression on her face shows that the sound wasn't one of horror, although her mouth is slightly open from what appears to be shock. The oblique angle of the light from the still lit bedside lamp combines with the brighter glow from above and brings to life the cluster of small diamonds that surround the central stone. The ring itself, currently held between Sara's finger and thumb, is regular gold but the diamonds are set in white gold to make the 'petals' of the 'daisy cluster' as the store assistant described it. In keeping with the theme the central stone is set in regular yellow gold to represent the middle of the flower.

"A ruby," Sara states, finding her voice, "I hadn't even thought about one of those, but it works." She turns the ring to look at it from different angles and I'm pleased with how the deep red stone complements her fair skin. "You know, being oval, it almost looks like a ladybug that's landed on a diamond flower." She looks up and catches me grinning, that's what persuaded me to choose this piece above all the others, I'd briefly thought of some kind of butterfly motif, but memories of processing the jewellery collection of Sara's look alike, Debbie Marlin, made me reject the idea.

"I was going to ask for a sapphire or blue topaz to match your eyes, but this is beautiful."

I hope Sara means that but, just in case she's only saying that to please me, I decide to bring her attention back to my letter. I don't remember my exact words but I'm sure I said something to try and reassure Sara that she didn't have to accept my choice if she didn't want to. Sara reluctantly places the ring back down on the bed and resumes reading.

"'I know that the design is not exactly traditional and maybe that's for the best right now, but if you still want us to choose something together like we'd originally planned then I'm happy to do that, although I hope you'll still want to keep this one as a token of my feelings towards you, however our futures may turn out.'" Sara reaches the end of the text and looks at me, perhaps that glint in her eye is a small tear as she speaks aloud the last few words; "'Always yours, Gilbert.'"

"S-ara." I reach to touch the spot of moisture as it begins to escape towards her cheekbone.

Sara leans forward and kisses me on the mouth. It's the first time we've kissed there since she came back and it's chaste, a gentle touch involving only our lips.

"Since when have I been fixated on 'traditional', Gilbert Grissom?" she asks with a smile once the kiss is over. "And I have absolutely no intention of giving this ring back to you.

"However, I would very much like us to look at some jewellery stores together, when you feel up to a trip like that."

I try to hide my disappointment that Sara mustn't be quite as pleased with my choice of ring as she's making out, then I realise; that isn't the worst of it, if Sara wants us to go and pick another ring, then she hasn't completely understood that I'm giving her this ring now as a symbol of the commitment we're making to be more open to each other, to establish proper give and take between us, and then see where that takes us. In the letter I was offering to let her choose another ring to use for our actual engagement and an engagement is something I still don't think I'll be ready to consider again until I'm confident that Sara knows what she's getting herself into.

Sara is watching me and I can see her concern growing, my thoughts must be showing all over my face.

"Gil, I meant that I'd like us to pick out a nice chain for me to wear this ring on, it deserves something better than a plain thing that I might have somewhere in my jewellery box, that's all. I wasn't suggesting you pay for another ring when this one is so beautiful and truly perfect as a gift from you. I understand that you can't have that much money available to you now that you can't work, especially after giving me that big cheque."

OK, so she hasn't quite read my mind because money has been the least of my worries since I was hurt. Ecklie stepped up for once and pushed for me to get the maximum, 'injured in the line of duty' pay-out from my employees' insurance and I also had some personal policies that covered critical injury. The sale of my old house released a big sum that has just been sitting in the bank, so giving Sara a share of that for being the person who made my house a proper home was an easy decision. All in all I'm pretty wealthy now, so it's a good job I have someone I know to be as trustworthy as Jim Brass to take care of it all for me, even if he does sometimes joke about touring Europe at my expense.

I smile at Sara and shake my head, holding my arms wide apart to try and signal vast numbers of dollars. Her response has cheered me up because the mention of a chain to hang her ring on has reassured me that Sara understands that even though I've presented her with a ring, I haven't just proposed marriage again. It's also a relief to know that Sara really wouldn't mind being seen in public with me as I am now.

"Well, that's a big grin," Sara says, displaying one of her own, "can I take that as a sign that you're over you nightmare now? Because much as I'd love to celebrate right now it's almost two a.m., and we should both be trying to get some sleep if we want to do much tomorrow morning before Lucy collects you after lunch." She starts to get off the bed, carefully collecting the various bits of packaging, the letter and the ring as she does so.

I'm all prepared to settle when Sara helps me ease back to a horizontal position, removing the extra pillows that I was leaning on and I accept her goodnight kiss contentedly, knowing that the gamble I took by giving her my letter and the ring has been a success, even if it will be some time before I find out the real extent of any 'winnings'. Then Sara starts to leave and the sight of her at the door, with an envelope in one hand and the other reaching for the light-switch, brings the memory of my dream flooding back. My incoherent but clearly anxious grunt halts Sara before I'm left with only the bedside lamp for company and she comes back towards me.

"You look scared again Bug Guy, don't you want me to go?"

I shake my head and, in another impetuous move, I lift the duvet in invitation.

Sara tilts her head to one side in consideration, "Are you sure?"

I blink that I am, maybe it's not my brightest idea considering how adamant I've been that we should just be friends for now, but what I want tonight is the comfort of Sara being close beside me while I try to go back to sleep.

"We'll, I did once invite you to spend the night with me to help me deal with my nightmares, I guess I'd be a hypocrite to refuse when you ask the same thing, especially as we understand each other a lot better than we did then, don't we?"

I just smile at her, remembering my shock on that occasion.

"OK then, but no funny business, Doctor Grissom, do you understand?"

I grin at Sara's way of telling me she's aware of the terms on which I'm asking her to stay and pull back the duvet a little further. Moments later Sara joins me.

It takes a while for us to settle on a comfortable position. Usually I sleep with my deaf ear uppermost and my right hand on my pillow where it's least likely to end up in a position when the circulation could get cut off without me noticing, but tonight I want to be able to hear if Sara says something to me and with another person in the bed I have to be even more careful that my hand won't get crushed. In the end we settle on the 'spoons' position lying on our left sides, unconventionally Sara is behind me but, because we're much the same height, it seems to work.

Sara wraps one arm around me and I place my left hand on top of hers where it rests on my stomach. I know that she must be able to feel the scars there through the thin fabric of my T-shirt but it no longer bothers me. With time Sara will get to see all the consequences of what happened to me and I'm no longer going to try and protect her from those things. Together we'll tackle every obstacle when we come to it. At last, after all these years, we're finally travelling the same road and facing in the same direction, wherever our final destination might be.

Interlacing my fingers with Sara's I realise that, for the first time since my world collapsed around me, I finally feel happy and optimistic about the future and, judging by the kiss she just placed on the back of my neck, so does she. Life is never completely perfect but right now it feels damn close.

**A/N** As for where Grissom and Sara's journey will end up, you're going to have to decide that for yourselves, because that's where I'm leaving the Cottonwood House Universe. I have my own 'journey' to get on with, including some real life stuff to catch up on. I do intend to be back writing CSI: fan fiction sometime in the Spring, but I will be exploring something new next time, not producing another sequel, so please don't ask!

Thanks to all of you who have read, reviewed and encouraged during the writing of this story and the rest of the series, particularly Auntie_J and SylvieT.

Moonstarer.


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